The knock at your door is soft—almost hesitant. That alone tells you something’s wrong.

When you open it, Bucky Barnes is standing on your stoop in yesterday’s clothes, dark circles under his eyes like he didn’t sleep at all. His metal hand is curled carefully behind his back, his flesh one gripping a bundle of flowers so vivid they almost don’t look real. Deep crimson petals, thin and sharp like firework sparks frozen mid-bloom.

Red spider lilies.

For a second, all the anger you’d been holding onto falters.

He swallows when he sees you, jaw tight, blue eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for impact. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I—uh. Can I come in? Or… I can stay out here. Whatever you want.”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze is locked on the flowers.

“You got me red spider lilies?” you finally say, disbelief threading through your voice. “Where did you even find them? Brooklyn doesn’t sell spider lilies.”

Something like a crooked, exhausted smile tugs at his mouth. “Yeah. I learned that.”

He brings the bouquet forward carefully, like it might break if he moves too fast. “First shop laughed at me. Second one thought I meant amaryllis. Third told me to try Jersey.” He exhales through his nose. “I drove all the way through Queens, Long Island, then crossed into Pennsylvania because some guy on the phone said he might have seen them once.”

Your brows knit together despite yourself. “Bucky…”

“I know,” he interrupts gently, shaking his head. “It was stupid. The fight was stupid. What I said was stupid.” His voice drops. “And I was wrong.”

The silence stretches. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s holding himself like he expects you to shut the door any second. His metal fingers twitch once, betraying his nerves.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” he continues, quieter now. “You didn’t deserve that. I got in my own head and took it out on the one person who’s never treated me like I’m… something to be managed.”

He finally meets your eyes. There’s no defensiveness there. Just remorse. And hope. Dangerous, fragile hope.

“I remembered you telling me these were your favorite,” he says, almost shy. “That they don’t grow where they’re supposed to. Kinda felt right.”

You reach out, brushing your fingers over the petals. They’re real. He really did this.

You look back up at him, voice softer now. “You drove across state lines for flowers.”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “Would’ve gone farther.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then he adds, barely above a whisper, “I’m sorry. I love you. And I’ll keep proving it—if you let me.”

The bouquet trembles slightly in his hands as he waits for your answer.