The door slammed.

Not loud enough to break anything, but enough to echo the fight that had erupted hours earlier.

You stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes burning from anger and unshed tears. The skyline of New York blinked at you like it didn’t just watch your world tilt sideways.

“You weren’t going to tell me?” you’d said. “I didn’t even know,” Bucky snapped. “She threw my name out like it was hers to give.”

And that was it. The last straw in a week full of silent meals, missed texts, and a growing ache between you two that neither wanted to name.

Now the apartment was quiet, except for the sound of the front door opening again.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” Bucky said behind you, voice low, rough. “I didn’t want it to go like that.”

You didn’t turn. “And yet you let it.”

A pause. His footsteps were slow, measured.

“I didn’t want to leave,” he added. “Not really. I just… didn’t know how to stay. Not after everything with the Void, with Val. I didn’t ask for this.”

“You don’t have to explain it like I’m a stranger,” you muttered. “You’re not the only one who lost control.”

His hand brushed your lower back, tentative. When you didn’t pull away, he moved closer. You could feel the heat of him behind you, like he was trying not to touch, not fully.

“I hate fighting with you,” he whispered. “Feels like I’m back in a war I can’t win.”

You turned then—eyes meeting his.

“Then stop acting like you’re in one,” you whispered.

And it snapped.

His mouth was on yours before either of you could speak again, rough, desperate. Fingers tangling in your shirt, backing you into the wall like he needed to remind himself you were real.

“You still mad at me?” he breathed, lips ghosting your throat.