Archive of Our Own

The low hum of your car stopped once you turned off the engine, the only sound filling the silence of the night was the slight movement of the fishing boats against the pier. You rested your forehead over the steering wheel, sighing in the dark.

You ran away from Baton Rogue after the messiest moment of your life, a divorce after a four year marriage with Noah, who was supposed to be the love of your life, the person you would spend your life with.

It started in February, the day you decided to go and surprise him at his office; little did you know you would be the one surprised, when you found out he was banging his long time best friend Theresa on his desk.

You were in shock for a week or so, and once you snapped you filed for divorce, trying to work things out peacefully. The only thing you wanted was to get out of his life for good. But he wouldn't let go that easy, after all, he was an important CEO, his family owned an energy conglomerate and they were traditional, a divorce would look bad, even a silent one.

Noah tried winning you back for the sake of his reputation. Promised the moon and stars, to not cheat again… Theresa, the resentful one, couldn't stand it so she got revenge and leaked a sex tape for everyone to see.

It was like pushing down a piece of domino in order to watch the whole thing fall down.

After six months of back and forth in the courthouse, avoiding the press and trying to put your life back together you decided Baton Rouge wasn't a safe place to stay anymore. You felt that you've become the entire city's clown, and you could sense people's pitying looks every time they crossed paths with you.

That's when your aunt offered you her house in Delacroix, a quiet place where you could start off your new life. Which honestly, you needed.

You had to figure out what to do next, whatever that meant.

Suddenly everything you've planned with your life was gone.

Destroyed.

It haunted you every single night when you laid on your back and tried to fall asleep.

'Maybe we can travel to Europe once we have our first child'. 'You think it would be a he or a she?' 'I just hope that he has your eyes'.

You pulled your head away from the steering wheel, looking around. It was lonely. Quiet. Peaceful. No one was there to ask any questions. It was perfect, for now.

The main door creaks once you open it. The lights were on, just like you were told they would be. There's no one waiting for you inside. You walk slowly to the couch, leaving one of your suitcases by the wall. The clock ticking on the wall is the only thing keeping you accompanied.

You don't allow yourself to cry. Not yet.

The truth is, you've been holding back for months now. Your family told you to keep your chin up and look forward, to not show any vulnerability because people would tear you apart if you did. Now, you were numb.

The air is filled with the smell of floor cleaned. Everything is so tidy that it feels wrong to break down, as if your feelings were something dirty to let out.

You take off your shoes, sitting down on the edge of the bed without unpacking and you finally accept that nothing nor anyone is going to magically do this easier.

Everything was over.

You didn't know how many days passed, when a firm knock was heard on the other side of the main door, finally breaking the silence. It was a surprise, since the only thing that you've heard in the past few days were the fishers getting ready to start their days by the morning, and them unloading their ships at evening when the sun set.

Not that you would've seen with your own eyes the sunset. Or anything at all. You just guided yourself by the slight lightning filtering through the curtains. You have been eating once a day and you only remembered showering four times since you arrived here.

Another knock, and then someone trying to force the knob.

"I swear to god if you don't open this door I'm going to kick down the door", the well known voice of your best friend, Natalie, filled the whole room. Before you could do or say something else, the door opened completely.

You heard the dramatic gasp leaving her lips as she gauged the disaster you were.

There were instant soup packages in the coffee table, your luggage was scattered all over the floor and you… well, you have been crying on a daily basis. Your eyes were swollen, and your spirit broken.

"Enough", she said, practically dragging you into the bathroom. "You've been ignoring my calls for days, it's time for you to get back on your feet and… holy shit, when was the last time you showered?"

You don't even have time to respond or feel ashamed when she turns on the shower and throws you over there as if you weighed nothing, which honestly, could be true by this point by the way you've been neglecting yourself.

The cold water hit your skin, making you squeal. "What the hell, Natalie?!" you yell, trying to scramble out of the shower, but she simply closes the bathroom gate and stays near, guarding the door. Once you stop trembling you find strength to adjust the water temperature, taking off your soaked clothes and putting it on the shelf.

A few hours later, the house is as tidy as it was when you first arrived. Natalie had went to the local market and stuffed your fridge and the cabinets with enough supplies for a month or so and cooked some comfort food, practically staring at you until you ate the last drop of it.

"You okay?"

You were about to nod, but you ended up shaking your head. "I don't think so. I just… I just don't know what to do anymore."

"Live. Not neglect yourself to death while you're isolated", she says bluntly. "Your sheets stink, by the way. You gotta do some laundry urgently or else people are gonna think you've died."

"That, I know" you mumble, rolling your eyes, finally feeling a small glimpse of yourself coming back. "I know that I gotta live, what I don't know is… how should I do so. I just… I planned my whole life with him, you know? And now that he's gone, I don't know what I am anymore, what should be next for me. I've been holding back for so long because people practically forced me to be strong…"

She reaches for your hand, squeezing it softly to reassure you. "You're allowed to grieve. What you shouldn't do is throw everything away and sink on your misery. Girl, you are a damn millionaire, thanks to that cheating scumbag. It's not like your life is over for good. You just have to find a different path for you. Being a wife wasn't the only thing meant for your life, gotta make yourself clear on that."

You knew deep down she was right, but it was so scary at the same time.

"But if you don't want that money I certainly know of someone who happens to dream about visiting Europe and would appreciate a donation to her cause." She added, with a lopsided grin that made you chuckle.

Well, it was a genuine first one after months of feigning joy.

Natalie stayed for a couple weeks, until you were noticeably better.

She cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner and helped you unpack and re-decorate the space to make it more vintage chic and less Victorian ghost (her words, not yours). She also forced you to get up from bed every single morning to walk by the pier and see the sunrise while doing some stretches, until one day you were finally doing it on your own.

It was November 16th now, you realized it thanks to the tear-off calendar she gently brought for you, one gift to make sure you lived one day at the time. She made you promise you will reintroduce yourself to the world before going back to the city.

Delacroix was a small town, it was the kind of place where no one was a stranger for long and everyone noticed when someone new showed up.

You were currently at one local coffee shop, hearing the murmur of distant conversations, while taking a deep breath.

You could leave if you wanted to. No one would judge you or claim about it. But you had to do it. One step at a time, you reminded yourself.

Before you could turn around and leave, your phone buzzed on your pocket. You pulled it out only to see a text message from Natalie.

Please tell me you've met a hot guy already.

That made a smile tug up your lips and decided it to do it for her. Not meeting the guy, just order a coffee and breathe fresh air while drinking it on the sidewalk table.

The barista takes your order, your regular order for autumn—a maple pecan latte. Something painfully familiar that makes your stomach churn with the memory, but you try to shake the thought. That was something yours, even before you met Noah. It didn't matter how many times he bought one for you.

Once you have your latte with you, you take a few steps back and turn around without hesitating, colliding with a solid wall of muscle. The cup slips down and spills all over the floor.

So long, starting a new life.

"Oh my god, I'm really sorry", you said by reflex, after staring at the whole mess on your feet. The hem of your white coat was splashed with coffee.

"No, no…" he says, almost at the same time. "It was my fault."

His voice doesn't match his aspect. You were expecting something rougher, maybe raspier. Instead, he speaks low, careful, as if he measures every word before letting it slip past his lips. Then you notice his eyes. Piercing blue. He doesn't make eye contact with you for long, his gaze drops shyly while he rushes himself to fix the situation, taking some napkins from the counter.

He crouches down instinctively, blotting at the floor like the coffee might somehow crawl back into the cup if he apologizes enough. "I really didn't see you," he adds, quieter now. "I wasn't paying much attention."

"It's okay," you say again, though your hands hover uselessly in front of you, unsure whether to help or just… disappear. "It was my fault too."

Your eyes flick to the mess on your coat, then back to the ruined latte pooling between your shoes. You swallow, chest tightening—not because of the spill, but because it feels stupidly symbolic. Of course this would happen the first time you try to exist again.

The barista is already grabbing a mop. "I'll go ahead and remake that for you," she says kindly, like she's learned not to ask questions in a town like this.

The man straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. Up close, you notice he looks… tired. Not in a dramatic way. Just someone who hasn't slept enough, who carries silence around him like a habit.

"I can pay for it," he offers quickly.

You shake your head. "You really don't have to."

"I insist," he says, then winces slightly, like he's worried insisting might be too much. "I mean— only if that's okay."

A pause stretches between you. It's not an uncomfortable one exactly. Just something unfamiliar.

"…Okay," you finally say.

He nods once, relieved, and steps to the counter. While he does, you move to the side, dabbing at your coat with napkins that don't help that much. Coffee stain: undefeated.

When he comes back, he doesn't hand you the cup right away.

"Looks like they added an extra napkin," he says. Then softer, almost like an afterthought, "and a lid this time."

You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop yourself. It surprises you almost as much as him.

"There you go," he says, holding it out.

Your fingers brush his when you take it. The contact is brief—nothing electric, nothing cinematic—but you feel it anyway. Maybe because it's the first time in a long while someone has touched you without expectation.

"I'm—uh—" He hesitates. "I'm sorry again. About your coat."

"It's fine," you say, and this time you mean it. "I guess I am an infallible ingredient for disaster."

Those words take both of you by surprise and you blush, realizing you just thought out loud. Another pause stretches between you.

"Bucky", he says after a while. "That's what they call me, at least. My name is James."

You blink. Then: "I'm—"

You stop for a second, saying your name feels heavier than it should. Like introducing yourself is quite a big deal in this new version of your life. You say it anyway.

He repeats it once, quietly, like he's testing how it sounds in his voice.

"Well," Bucky says, rocking back slightly on his heels, "I should probably—" He gestures vaguely toward the door. "Stop causing public disturbances."

You smile, small but real. "Probably."

He takes a step back, then another, clearly unsure if the moment is over yet.

"It was nice meeting you," he adds. "Even… like this."

"Yeah," you say. "It was."

When he finally leaves, the bell over the door jingles softly behind him.

You stand there for a moment longer, latte warm in your hands, heart doing something unfamiliar—not hope, not excitement. It just… feels.

Your phone buzzes again.

So… any hot townie?

You glance at the door once more before typing back.

spilled some coffee on a stranger. Didn't cry. I'm counting it as a win.

After a minute or so, you take your latte outside and sit at the small table by the sidewalk, letting the November air bite gently at your cheeks.

Bucky has been sanding the same spot for the third time when Sam finally says something.

"You know," Sam starts casually tightening a bolt, "if you keep doing that, the boat's gonna end up with a hole."

Bucky doesn't look up. "I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Sam squints at the hull. "Cause from where I'm standing, you've been attacking the same six inches of wood for ten minutes."

Bucky pauses and looks down, then shifts the sander a few inches to the left.

"Better," Sam says, satisfied. He wipes his hands on a rag. "So, why are you brooding now? You only get like this when something's stuck in your head."

Bucky exhales through his nose. "I spilled coffee on a woman. That's all."

"Uh-huh." Sam hums. "And then you came back here, stared at this boat for then straight minutes, and sanded the same spot into oblivion."

Bucky turns the sander off. "I was thinking."

"About the boat?" Sam asks.

"…Yes."

Sam raises an eyebrow, Bucky just shoots him a look and Sam just shrugs, completely unbothered.

"I'm just saying," Sam continues, picking up another plank, "you've been walking around like you forgot where you put your brain. That usually only happens when something interesting shows up."

"You done?"

"Oh no," Sam says brightly. "I'm just getting started. And I'm dying to know what mystery lady has finally cracked the code in that Robocop brain of yours."

The community center is quieter than you expected.

Not silent—just low. The hum of lights and scrape of a chair somewhere down the hall are occasionally heard. Sunlight stretches the floor in pale bands, stopping just short of your shoes.

You linger by the bulletin board longer than necessary, reading the same few flyers twice. Three times. You tell yourself you're comparing options, but really you're stalling. Letting your body catch up to the decision you already made by walking through the door.

A step sounds beside you. Not rushed. Not trying to be quiet.

"Those change every couple of weeks." You glance over at the source of the voice.

She's holding a stack of papers, hair pulled in a way that looks practical rather than intentional. Her voice is calm, conversational —like she's commenting on the weather.

"Oh," you say. "I didn't know."

She nods, eyes flicking briefly to the board before settling back on you. Not with scrutiny, just curiosity. "Yeah. Some of them come back around".

There's a comfortable pause. She doesn't fill it. "I'm Sarah," she adds eventually. You give her your name. It still feels strange, but not bad. "First time?" she asks.

You hesitate, then nod. "I'm new in town. My aunt Gracie lived by the pond, she let me borrow her house for a few months."

Her face lit up at the mention of your aunt, but it's not surprising. People loved her. "That makes sense, I mean… I can see the resemblance. Well, If you ever need anything, front desk is usually the best place to start."

You swallow and nod again. She smiles and steps back, already turning as if the moment has reached is natural end.

"Nice meeting you," she says.

"Yeah," you reply. "You too."

She disappears down the hallway without fanfare leaving you alone with the board again. Nothing about it has changed. Same flyers, same crooked corners. But your shoulders drop a fraction anyway.

You pull one page free and go over to the front desk. Yoga class was some way to start, it could help you relax. You also sign a clipboard for updates, and organize a few faces by the time you step back, not enough to call them familiar, but enough for you to nod if you passed them again.

Outside, the town moves at an unhurried pace. A couple of kids ride past on bikes, laughing too loudly. Someone waves from across the street, and it takes you a second to realize the gesture is meant for you—not because they know you, but because that's what people do here. You return it, awkward but sincere.

By the time you reach the water, you realize something quietly important: you're not watching anymore. You're participating. In pieces. In fragments. But still.

That's when you notice the boat.

It sits close to the dock, larger than the others, unmistakably mid-repair. The paint has been sanded down in uneven patches, bare wood exposed where someone stopped and started again.

You slow, drawn in by something you can't explain.

The boat rocks gently with the water, steady despite its rough edges. It creaks when a wave nudges it too hard, but it stays afloat. The parallel settles in quietly.

Still here. Still holding. Still in progress.

You stand there for a moment longer, breathing in the smell of freshwater and sun-warmed wood, then continue on, the town behind you and around you now: not fully yours, but no longer detached either.

"Progress isn't linear." Your therapist doesn't say it gently.

You stare at the spot on the rug between your shoes, tracing the pattern with your eyes. You've heard versions of that sentence before—on social media, in well-meaning advice— but this one lands different. Maybe because you've spent almost two days rooting in bed… again.

"You can have good days," she continues, "and still fall apart later. That's how healing works."

You nod, even though something tight in your chest resists. "It feels like… like every single step I've taken just… dissipated"

"I know," she says. "That's usually the hardest part. But every single step you've taken counts."

You almost laugh at that. Almost.

When the session ends, you leave with that sentence following you out the door, clinging lightly, like it doesn't want to be forgotten.

Progress isn't linear, you repeat it to yourself later, as you stare into your coffee until it's gone lukewarm. The cup is warm in your hands, but the comfort doesn't quite register.

You take a sip. It tastes faint, diluted. You must've added too much cream. You're right here, upright, trying to participate in the day—and yet, part of you feels slightly out of sync, like you missed a step and never found the rhythm again.

Across the street, Bucky pauses.

He's mid-conversation with Sam, carrying a toolbox when his attention drifts slightly. He notices you staring into your cup, the tension on your shoulders, posture folded as if you were trying to take up less space.

"…you listening?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," Bucky says automatically. He isn't.

Sam follows his gaze, then smirks. "Oh. That her?"

Bucky blinks. "What?"

"The mystery lady," Sam continues easily. "The one you were brooding about the other day because you spilled her coffee."

Bucky stiffens. "I wasn't brooding."

"You absolutely were brooding," Sam cuts in. "You almost threw our load back into the pond. Tell me that's not her."

Bucky exhales, like he's humoring this conversation more than engaging in it. "You're reading too much into it."

Sam laughs softly. "Uh-huh. That's why you're still watching."

"C'mon," Bucky says shifting his grip on the toolbox, already turning back toward Sam's house. "We're gonna be late".

Sam doesn't argue.

They make it a few steps before Bucky slows, just enough. He tells himself it's nothing—just checking his footing, just habit— but when he glances over his shoulder, his breath catches anyway.

You're still there. Still wrapped around that coffee like it's anchoring you to the moment, gaze unfocused, presence gentle and distant all at once. Sunlight hits the side of your face, softens the line of your jaw.

For a second, everything else fades. And he hopes —quietly, unexpectedly— that he'll run into you again.

The days begin to settle into something recognizable. You start going back to the community center once or twice a week. At first, you arrive early and leave quickly, slipping in and out before anyone can expect too much of you. Over time, you linger. Long enough to help fold flyers. Long enough to learn which chair doesn't wobble.

People begin to nod when they see you. Some of them remember your name. The ones who don't, smile at you anyway.

Some days you feel present, grounded enough to join conversations halfway through. Other days, you hover at the edges, content to listen, to exist without contributing more than a nod or a laugh.

Both kinds of days count.

Without even noticing, Sarah starts to be a part of your routine. You think Natalie would like her if she met her. She often asks how the yoga class is going, inviting you to new workshops.

She starts introducing you to everyone at town.

Between errands and classes, you find yourself walking by the docks more often. The boat you saw the other day is still there.

It changes slowly—planks replaced, paint smoothed, rust disappearing inch by inch. You don't linger, not really, but you register the progress, how it's slowly becoming solid again. Reliable. Whole.

Weeks pass like that — small conversations, familiar routes, the steady presence of something being repaired without urgency.

One afternoon, as you're helping stack chairs, Sarah leans against the doorframe beside you.

"We're doing a cookout this weekend," she says. "Family, friends. Low-key… you should come, if you want."

You glance at her, surprised.

"I will think about it."

Sarah smiles. "Well, if you come to a decision, it will be right by the docks. Just follow the smoke and the smell of the grill."

And there you were.

Standing in front of the mirror longer than necessary, adjusting nothing, questioning everything. The dress —too much? Not enough? You tell yourself it's just a cookout. Plates of food, loud voices, kids running around. Normal.

Still, your hand hovers over the door handle like it might burn.

By the time you arrive, the yard is already alive. Music drifts through the air, something warm and familiar. Smoke curls lazily from the grill, laugher rising and falling in waves. Sarah spots you immediately and her face lights up like this was always part of the plan.

"You made it," she says, pulling you in before you can second-guess yourself. A plate appears in your hands. Someone introduces themselves. Someone else asks where you're from. You answer in autopilot, smiling when prompted, nodding at the right moments, but it all feels slightly muffled, like you're underwater.

Sarah notices immediately, but she doesn't crowd you. When you excuse yourself to stand near the edge of the docks, she follows with her gaze, then turns quietly to Sam.

"Hey," she says low, nodding in your direction. "She's sweet. Just… a little checked out."

Sam glances over. "Uh-huh. You want me to do something about it?"

"Think you could talk to her?" Sarah asks. "Invite her out sometime. Coffee, town stuff. She's trying."

Sam hums, thoughtful. "I guess I can do that."

Bucky hears it mid-step. He's passing by with Cass and AJ—one tugging at his sleeve, the other arguing about dessert—when the words land. He freezes so abruptly the kids nearly walk straight into him. He glances in your direction, processing Sarah's words.

"Uncle Bucky?" Cass looks up. "Why did you stop?"

He doesn't answer.

Sam turns, catching the way Bucky has gone still, like someone pressed pause on him. The realization hits, and Sam's mouth twitches.

"Oh," he says. "You mean… her?"

Sarah follows the glance, then smiles—slow, knowing. "Is that the one?"

Bucky blinks, finally registering what he's done. His expression shutters instantly.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Cass an AJ, sensing blood in the water, immediately pivot their attention to Bucky. "Uncle Bucky has a crush!"

"I do not," Bucky mutters.

Cass cranes his neck. "You look nervous."

"I'm not," he says, trying to resume his walk like nothing happened. Sam gets in his way, grinning.

"Relax, man. I was just gonna invite her out… Unless you want to?"

Bucky opens his mouth—then closes it again.

That's when you approach, still a little distant, still polite, unaware you've just become the subject of discussion.

"Hey, Sarah," you say softly. "Sorry—um, I think, I'm gonna head out. Thank you for inviting me. Really."

Sarah's face softens instantly.

"Of course, sweetheart." She clears her throat once and nudges Bucky's arm with purpose. "Why don't you walk her home?"

He startles. "What—?"

You glance at him at the sound of his voice and pause. It takes half a second. Maybe less. But recognition flickers across your face, subtle and unguarded. Not shock. Not tension. Just a quiet realization.

"Oh," you say gently. "You were—um. From the coffee shop".

He nods, a little stiff. "Yeah. That was me."

"It's almost dark," Sarah continues, already turning back to you. "And he was just heading that way anyway."

You hesitate. "I don't wanna be a bother."

"You're not," Bucky says, too quickly—then reins himself in. "I mean. It's no trouble."

Sarah presses leftovers into your hands and gives Bucky a look that's equal parts warning and encouragement.

As you walk away together, the noise of the cookout fades.

The street is dim, lit by porch lights and the soft glow spilling from windows. Somewhere behind you, laughter drifts from some of the houses you pass by, but it fades with every step until it's just the sound of your shoes against the pavement.

Bucky breaks the silence first.

"So," he says, voice low, almost tentative. "How you've been doing?"

You think about it for a moment, eyes on the ground. "Okay," you say finally. "I think. Some days better than others. Everyone here is very welcoming, I think I made the right choice by coming here."

He hums softly, a sound of agreement more than anything else. "That's kind of the reason why I'm still here."

You glance at him, surprised. "Still here?"

He hesitates, then nods. "Yeah, I'm staying with the Wilson for now. Helping out, fixing the boat."

"Oh," you say, the pieces clicking together. "So you both are working on the boat that's in the middle of the docks?"

"Yeah," he replies. "Mostly Sam. I just… hand him tools and get in the way."

That earns a small smile from you. You walk a few steps before adding, quieter, more to yourself than to him, "I like watching it change. The boat, I mean. Little by little."

Bucky glances at you, something thoughtful passing through his expression. "Me too."

Your place comes into view sooner than expected. You slow without meaning to, steps growing smaller as the porch light casts a warm circle on the sidewalk. The night feels different here.

"Well," you say softly, stopping at the door. "This is my place."

Bucky nods, hands tucked into his jacket like he doesn't quite know where to put them. He looks around once, then back at you.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, and then, as if worried it might be too much, adds, "I mean… around, in town."

You hesitate, then speak, almost under your breath. "I'm still figuring things out."

Bucky meets your eyes. "Yeah," he says. "So am I."

"Goodnight, Bucky." You say, unlocking the door and stepping inside without turning around.

"Goodnight," he replies as you close the door gently behind you.

For a second, you just stand there. Then you lean back against the door, the wood cool through your clothes, and finally let yourself breathe. Your heart is pounding loud, insistent, like it's trying to remind you that you're still here. Still capable of feeling this way. You press a hand to your chest, half amused, half overwhelmed by it.

Nothing happened, and yet you think of the way he looked at you when he said he was figuring things out too. The quiet in his voice. The steadiness.

Outside, footsteps fade down the street.

Inside, for the first time in a long while, your heart races for something that doesn't scare you.

January

The bell above the door chimes softly when you step inside, the sound familiar enough now that it doesn't spike your nerves. It feels like you're slipping back into a version of yourself you almost forgot existed.

The holidays have come and gone. Two weeks away. Two weeks of family dinners, forced smiles, familiar bedrooms that no longer feel like home. Delacroix looks the same when you return—quiet, unbothered by your absence.

You order your usual without hesitating, warming your hands inside your coat sleeves while you wait for your coffee. January has thinned the place out. Fewer people. Lower voices.

"Hey," Bucky greets standing a few feet away, jacket half-unzipped, hands tucked into his pockets.

You look up, then smile before you can help yourself. "Hey."

"You were gone," he says, then winces slightly. "I mean… I didn't see you around for a while."

That makes you blink, caught off guard. "Yeah. Holidays. I went to visit my family."

"Right," he says, nodding. "That makes sense. I noticed."

Something in your chest softens at that. The idea that your absence left a shape somewhere.

"I, uh—" He continues, then stops. "I was actually hoping I'd run into you."

Your chest tightens, just a little. "Oh?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, not in a weird way. I just—" He pauses, taking a deep breath. "I was wondering if you'd wanna get coffee sometime. Like… on purpose. No accidents required."

You look down at your hands, at the counter, anywhere but his face. The instinct to retreat flickers. The voice that says careful. The one that says don't rush.

But there's another one now, the slurred words from Natalie after getting wasted on New Year's: You're not trapped anymore. You're free to start rebuilding your life.

Finally, you lift your eyes back to him. He's watching you, open and unguarded, not pushing. Just waiting.

"I…" You hesitate then let out a breath that feels like stepping forward instead of back. "I think I'd like that. But gotta warn you… I might be a little awkward."

His shoulders ease, like he didn't realize how tense he was until that second. A small smile pulls at his mouth before he shrugs lightly. "I already spilled coffee on you. I think we're past pretending we're cool."

He hesitates, then adds softly, "I'm… not great at dating either."

The admission hangs there between you. Just brutal honesty.

That makes you smile, something warm loosening in your chest. The barista calls your name and you reach for your cup, fingers warm around it.

Bucky steps aside to let you pass, then hesitates. "I'll—uh… I'll wait for you out of the community center. Sarah told me you're volunteering at the library."

"Yeah, I'm free this Wednesday. I usually stay around at the community center hosting bingo for the elders."

Sam chimes in, apparently getting out of the bathroom, while drying his hands with a rag. "Then Bucky's joining you for bingo," he says grinning. "He's practically a relic already."

"Sam," Bucky warns.

"I'm serious," Sam continues. "Thank god you're back. He's been death-staring into the pond like it personally wronged him, like you were—"

"Okay," Bucky cuts in, a little too quickly. He reaches out, grabs the back of Sam's jacket, and starts dragging him toward the door. "We're leaving."

"Oh, come on man! I was mid-sentence," Sam protests, laughing as the bell jingles overhead.

"You were done," Bucky says pushing him outside without looking back. The door swings shut behind them, cutting Sam off mid-laugh.

You're left standing there, coffee in hand, heart doing something unfamiliar and unsteady. A moment later, Bucky reappears at the window. He hesitates, then lifts a hand in a small, almost sheepish wave.

"Wednesday?" he mouths.

You nod, smiling before you can stop yourself and he nods back before disappearing down the street.

You take a sip of your coffee while looking outside. There's an old instinct still there; your shoulders subtly tense, your breath held just a second.

But then, you remember his voice. The way he looked slightly flustered while Sam was practically saying out loud the way your absence affected him… and something else stirs.

A careful hope, tentative as his voice had been. A warmth that has nothing to do with the coffee in your hands.

You don't name it yet.

You just recognize the feeling of beginning again, unfolding slowly, right were you are.