The apartment feels too quiet without Bucky’s low hums or the clink of his metal arm brushing against the coffee mug he always uses. You sit on the couch, clutching his worn leather jacket, the scent of him—pine and steel—fading with each passing week. He left for a solo mission in South America, tracking a rogue arms dealer. “Two weeks, tops,” he’d promised, his blue eyes soft as he kissed your forehead. That was four months ago.

The Avengers Compound buzzes around you, but it’s a distant hum. Sam drops by with coffee, insisting you join him for a run. “You need to get out of your head,” he says, but his words feel hollow. Wanda tries to coax you into the kitchen with the promise of homemade Sokovian dumplings, but you can’t stomach food when your dreams are filled with images of Bucky bleeding out in some jungle. Natasha’s tough-love lectures about resilience only make you feel smaller, like you’re failing him by falling apart. You check the mission logs obsessively, but there’s nothing—no word, no signal, no Bucky.

Tonight, you’re alone again, the clock ticking past midnight. The silence is deafening, and your chest aches with the weight of not knowing if he’s alive. You curl tighter into his jacket, whispering to yourself that he’ll come back. But the longer he’s gone, the harder it is to believe.

The storm outside rattles the windows, rain pounding against the glass. You barely notice, lost in the fog of another sleepless night. Then, a soft creak—the front door. Your heart stutters, but you don’t move, afraid it’s another cruel trick of your mind. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, echo through the apartment. You turn, and there he is—Bucky, soaked to the bone, his tactical gear torn, his face bruised but alive. His eyes, those same blue eyes you’ve dreamed of, lock onto yours, and they’re filled with a mix of relief and dread.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice rough, taking a hesitant step forward. You want to run to him, but your legs won’t move. He’s here, but the sight of you—pale, eyes sunken, surrounded by unwashed dishes and crumpled tissues—makes his jaw tighten.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, dropping to his knees in front of you. His metal hand hovers near your cheek, trembling, as if he’s afraid you’ll shatter. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know it’d be this long.”

You try to speak, but all that comes is a choked sob. He pulls you into his arms, and the warmth of him, the solid reality of him, breaks the dam you’ve held for months. “I thought you were gone,” you manage, voice muffled against his chest. Bucky’s grip tightens, his own guilt crashing over him as he sees how deeply his absence cut you.