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Bucky never cared much for Valentine’s Day. Not because he was bitter or didn’t believe in love—he had loved once, long ago, before war and Hydra and the weight of decades had reshaped him. It was just that love, for a long time, had felt like something that existed for others, something fragile and fleeting, something meant to be observed from the shadows but never held in his own hands.
Then came Natasha.
Their love had never been conventional. It was forged in the chaos of battle, in the shared understanding of wounds that never quite healed. It was late-night talks where words were scarce, but silences were full of meaning. It was trust built slowly, piece by piece, until neither could imagine standing alone.
So when Bucky found himself standing in the middle of a small Brooklyn flower shop on Valentine’s morning, staring at bouquets of roses, he felt out of place. The thought of giving Natasha flowers seemed almost ridiculous. She didn’t care for grand gestures, for clichés. But he wanted to do something—something that wasn’t about obligation or expectation, but about her.
His fingers hovered over a bundle of deep red tulips. Not roses, not overly extravagant, but striking in their own right. The florist, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a knowing smile, wrapped them in simple brown paper and tied them with twine.
“Special someone?” she asked as she handed them to him.
“Yeah,” he admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips.
After the shop he’d return home.
Natasha was in the kitchen when he got back to their apartment, dressed in one of his shirts, her red hair a wild tangled mess from sleep. She looked up from the coffee she was making, eyebrows raising as she took in the flowers in his hands.
“What’s this?” she asked, amused.
Bucky stepped closer, suddenly feeling awkward. “They reminded me of you,” he murmured, offering them to her. “Strong. Beautiful.”
Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she just looked at him. Then, with a softness most never got to see, she reached for the tulips, her fingers brushing his.
“I don’t need flowers, Bucky,” she said, but there was warmth in her voice. “You know that.”
“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to.”
She leaned up and kissed him then—slow and deep, her hands coming up to cup his face. He melted into it, into her, into the way she fit against him like she had always belonged there.
When they parted, her green eyes were bright. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Soldier.”
He let out a soft chuckle, wrapping his arms around her. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Red.”
And for the first time in a long time, Bucky felt like love wasn’t just something he had lost. It was something he had, something he was still learning to hold. And as Natasha pulled him down for another kiss, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he finally understood what it meant to be loved in return.