The Wakandan night was heavy with the promise of war, the air thick with the scent of grass and distant smoke. You sat on a low hill overlooking the vibranium mines, the glow of the city’s tech casting faint shadows across your notebook. A pen dangled between your fingers, ink smudged from hours of writing. Beside you, Bucky Barnes leaned back on his elbows, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he stared at the stars. The metal of his new vibranium arm glinted faintly, a gift from T’Challa, but it was the softness in his gaze that held you captive.

“You gonna finish that letter or just keep doodling hearts?” Bucky teased, his voice low, carrying that Brooklyn drawl you’d grown to love.

You rolled your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “It’s not a heart, Barnes. It’s a… tactical sketch of an Outrider’s weak points.” He snorted, stealing a glance at your page. “Sure, doll. Looks like a heart to me.”

This was your ritual—letters. It started months ago, when you’d found Bucky sleepless in a Wakandan hut, haunted by memories of the Winter Soldier. You’d slipped him a note, nothing fancy, just a scribbled You’re not him anymore. You’re enough. He’d written back, leaving a folded reply in the hollow of a tree near your quarters. Thanks for seeing me. From there, it became your thing: notes left in secret, sometimes silly, sometimes raw, a tether between two souls caught in a world on the brink.

Tonight, with Thanos’ forces looming, the letters felt heavier. You tucked yours into the tree’s hollow, knowing Bucky would find it later. It read: If we survive this, you owe me a dance. 1940s style. Don’t flake, Barnes. He hadn’t written his yet, but the way he looked at you now—blue eyes soft, like he was memorizing your face—made you wonder what he’d say.

The next day, chaos swallowed Wakanda. You and Bucky fought side by side in the battle, your synergy unspoken but perfect. You ducked under his swinging arm as he took down an Outrider, your own strikes—whether with a weapon or powers you wielded—keeping the enemy at bay. Between the bloodshed, he’d flash you a grin, the kind that said, We’ve got this.

After the battle, in a rare lull, Sharon Carter found Bucky near the command tent. You were across the field, helping Shuri with wounded soldiers, but you caught the moment from the corner of your eye. Sharon’s hand brushed Bucky’s arm, her smile warm but calculated. “You look good out there, Bucky,” she said, voice low. “When this is over, maybe we could… pick up where we left off?”

Bucky stiffened, his jaw tight. He liked Sharon—respected her, even—but her words felt wrong, like a key in the wrong lock. “Sharon, I—” He hesitated, glancing toward you, where you were laughing with a Wakandan child despite the chaos. “I’m not that guy anymore. And my heart’s… it’s somewhere else.”

Sharon followed his gaze, her smile faltering but kind. “I get it. She’s lucky.”

Bucky didn’t correct her. He just nodded, his chest tight with words he hadn’t said to you yet.

Hours later, the world broke. Thanos’ Snap ripped through Wakanda, turning warriors to dust. You were crouched beside a fallen soldier, your notebook tucked into your jacket, when your fingers began to crumble. A gasp tore from your throat as you looked up, meeting Bucky’s eyes across the field.

“No—no!” He sprinted toward you, his boots pounding the earth, his face a mask of panic. You reached out, your hand dissolving as he slid to his knees before you. “It’s you,” he choked out, grabbing your fading wrist. “It’s always been you. I love you—God, I should’ve told you—”

Your vision blurred, but you forced a smile, your voice a whisper. “I know, Bucky.” The notebook slipped from your jacket, pages fluttering open to your last letter. Then you were gone, dust scattering in the wind.

Bucky stared at the ground, your notebook lying in the dirt, his confession echoing. He picked it up, his fingers trembling as he read your words: Don’t flake, Barnes. A sob broke free, and he clutched the paper to his chest, vowing to bring you back—no matter what it took.