Archive of Our Own

The bell over the front door chimed at 7:58 a.m., bright and thin as the first line of daybreak.

The café was still waking up. The air held that early – morning mix of things that never quite left the place – warm sugar and yeast from the pastry case, a faint citrus cleaner on the tabletops, and the deep, grounding scent of coffee that clung to the curtains, the wood, the sleeves of anyone who spent enough time behind the counter. Outside, the street was wet from overnight rain, asphalt reflecting the pale sky in long, broken mirrors.

You were already there, of course.

You always were.

Your apron was tied a little crooked at the back, one bow loop longer than the other. Your hair was gathered up in a quick twist that shed a few stubborn strands near your temples. There was a smear of flour – barely visible – on your wrist from rearranging the croissants, and your hands moved with the practiced economy of someone who could multitask without looking stressed about it. You wiped the espresso wand, checked the drip, tapped the register screen awake with the side of your thumb.

Bucky slipped in behind you through the employee entrance, shoulders instinctively hunched against the cold even though the café was warm. He stamped his boots on the mat. He didn’t take off his jacket right away. He never did, as if he needed those extra layers between himself and the world before he could agree to be perceived.

“Morning,” you said, not turning yet.

He liked that – how you didn’t make a performance out of it. No pitying softness, no probing questions. Just the simple acknowledgment that he existed, that he had arrived, that the day had started.

“Morning,” he answered, voice low and still a little rough around the edges.

You looked up then, and smiled at him over the top of the coffee grinder. It wasn’t a big smile. It didn’t ask anything of him. It was the kind of smile you gave when you were pleased to see someone and didn’t think you had to hide it.

It did something to him anyway.

It always did something to him.

He took a breath, slow and deliberate, as if air was a thing you had to measure when it might make you betray yourself. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the hook. He washed his hands. He tied his own apron, neat and tight, because a knot was a knot and at least knots made sense.

“Steve texted,” you said as you checked the pastry display. “He’s running ten minutes late.”

Bucky made a sound that could have meant of course. He started pulling out milk cartons, stacking them where they belonged. The café had a rhythm in the mornings, a sequence of little tasks that carried you forward whether you wanted them to or not. Beans. Filters. Cups. Cash drawer. The clock ticked on the wall above the chalkboard menu, loud in the empty room.

By 8:15, the place began to fill. It wasn’t a rush yet – more like a slow seep of people needing caffeine and routine. A woman in a red coat ordered a cappuccino and stared into her phone with the solemn devotion of someone reading bad news. Two students appeared at the window table and immediately sprawled, laptops out, coats tossed over the chair backs like they lived there. Someone came in with a dog that shook rain onto the tiles.

Bucky stayed mostly behind the bar, where he belonged. Not because he couldn’t handle people – he could, when he chose to – but because the bar was predictable. Measurements. Angles. Heat. The hiss of steam and the steady, satisfying thump of the tamper. There was comfort in the way a shot pulled if you paid attention to it. There was control in being able to fix something simply by following the process.

You floated, as you always did, between the register and the bar and the tables, plugging gaps before they became problems. You made the café feel held together by nothing more than your presence. You remembered regulars’ names. You refilled water glasses without being asked. You drew a little heart on the to-go cups of the couple who came in every Friday like it was a private joke between you and them.

Bucky watched you do it, and felt that familiar ache in his chest, warm and sharp all at once. Like a bruise he kept pressing, just to remind himself it was real.

Steve arrived at 8:27, cheeks pink from the cold, hair damp, wearing that bright, open expression that made strangers trust him on sight.

“Sorry,” Steve said, sliding in behind the counter as if he hadn’t just abandoned you to a morning shift. He bumped Bucky’s shoulder lightly, affectionate. “Traffic was awful.”

“You’re buying us pastries,” you declared immediately, pointing at him with a grin.

Steve’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Extortion.”

“Accountability,” you corrected.

Bucky pretended to be deeply engrossed in calibrating the grinder, because if he looked at you while you smiled like that, he might do something reckless. Like smile back too obviously. Like let himself feel it.

Like let Steve see.

Steve leaned closer to Bucky while you took a customer’s order, voice dropping. “You good?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened reflexively. He could hear himself in his own head – I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine – like a prayer he didn’t believe in. He didn’t say it.

Instead he shrugged, an economical movement. “Yeah.”

Steve didn’t push. He never did in public. He just nodded, and his gaze flicked – briefly, unmistakably – toward you, then back to Bucky.

Bucky looked away.

The morning moved on. Orders came in waves. Cups stacked. The espresso machine pulsed and hissed like a living thing. There were moments when the three of you worked in seamless coordination, like parts of a well-worn machine – Steve at the register, you running drinks, Bucky pulling shots – each of you anticipating the others without needing to speak.

In those moments, Bucky felt almost… normal.

The feeling never lasted long.

Around midday, the café settled into that softer stretch of hours. People lingered over lunch. The rain outside turned to a thin, reluctant drizzle. Light moved across the floor in faint, shifting shapes, as if the clouds were trying to decide whether to let the sun through.

It was during that lull that Clint Barton pushed through the front door.

He came in like he already belonged, like the world was a thing that would make space for him if he asked nicely – or even if he didn’t ask at all. He shook out his jacket, rain droplets scattering, and grinned at the room with the careless confidence of someone who knew he’d be tolerated at worst, liked at best.

“Hey,” Clint said, loud enough to catch your attention without having to shout. “Tell me you’ve got something sweet today.”

You looked up from wiping the counter and brightened in that automatic way you did when you saw someone you recognized. “Clint. We always have something sweet.”

Clint’s grin widened. “I meant you.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the metal pitcher in his hand. Not enough to dent it, but enough that his knuckles went pale.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too, as if Clint’s line was something familiar and harmless. “You want a cinnamon roll or not?”

Clint pressed a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “You’d deprive me of romance in my daily life?”

Bucky kept his head down. He focused on the milk, on the temperature, on the exact point where the surface turned glossy. His ears, however, were traitors. They caught every word.

Clint ordered, lingered. He talked to Steve like they were old friends and then leaned his elbows on the counter when Steve stepped away, angling himself toward you.

Bucky hated that angle.

He hated how easy Clint made it look to be close to you, to talk to you, to exist in your space without appearing to worry about what it cost.

Clint watched you for a moment, his expression shifting into something almost sincere. “You doing anything after your shift?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “After…?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, as if this was the simplest thing in the world. “Later. Tonight.”

Bucky felt the café tilt by half a degree.

You hesitated just long enough for hope – unwanted and stupid – to flare in Bucky’s chest. Then you shrugged, a little sheepish, like you were considering the logistics rather than the meaning. “I don’t know. Probably not much.”

Clint’s grin returned, bright as a coin. “Cool. Then let me take you out.”

The sound of the espresso machine suddenly seemed too loud. The hiss of steam turned into something sharp in Bucky’s ears.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your eyes flicked – quickly, unconsciously – toward Bucky behind the bar.

He hated that too. Not because you looked at him, but because you looked at him like his opinion mattered.

Clint followed your gaze. He turned his head, as if he’d only just noticed Bucky was there.

“Oh,” Clint said. He lifted his brows, amused, and then – because Clint Barton always had to turn things into a spectacle – he leaned a little on his heels and called, “Hey, Barnes. You gonna be a problem if I steal your coworker for a drink?”

Bucky’s pulse kicked hard once, like a warning.

There was a pause, brief and loaded, in which the world seemed to wait.

Bucky kept his face blank. Blank was safe. Blank was how you survived things.

He told himself he was doing you a favor. That you deserved to go out and have fun and say yes to someone who didn’t make loving you feel like walking onto thin ice.

He told himself he had no right.

He told himself, as he told himself every day, that wanting something didn’t mean he should touch it.

So he answered with the truth he’d been clinging to like a shield.

“No,” Bucky said, voice even. “We’re just friends.”

Something in your expression shifted so quickly most people wouldn’t have caught it. Not anger. Not hurt, exactly.

More like the moment a door closes quietly, and you realize you were standing in the wrong room.

Clint made a satisfied noise, like he’d won a bet. “Great. Then it’s settled.”

You laughed – a light sound, practiced, as if you could smooth over anything with a little charm. “Clint–”

“C’mon,” Clint pressed, undeterred. “One drink. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You glanced at the schedule, then at the pastry case, then at the door like it might offer an excuse. When you looked back at Clint, your smile was smaller. Realer.

“Okay,” you said finally. “Yeah. One drink.”

Bucky felt it like a bruise blooming under the skin.

Clint beamed. “Perfect. I’ll pick you up at–”

“After my shift,” you cut in quickly. “Text me.”

Clint saluted. “Yes, boss.” He took his coffee, winked at you, and left, the bell chiming after him like applause.

For a moment, the café returned to its normal noises: the grind of beans, the soft chatter of customers, the clink of cups.

But the space between you and Bucky had changed shape.

You didn’t come back behind the bar right away. You busied yourself wiping a table that was already clean, hands moving a little too fast. When you did return, you didn’t look at him at first. You reached for cups, for lids, for anything you could touch that wasn’t him.

Bucky tried to pretend he didn’t notice. He tried to become a machine again. He pulled shots. He steamed milk. He put lids on cups and slid them across the counter without meeting eyes.

It worked, until you spoke.

Not loudly. Not in front of anyone.

“Hey,” you said, soft.

Bucky’s chest tightened. He didn’t look up immediately, because looking up would mean being seen.

“What?” he murmured.

You waited a beat, as if you were choosing your words carefully, like the wrong ones might cut you.

Then you asked, very quietly, “Am I really just your friend?”

The sentence didn’t land like an accusation.

It landed like a confession you hadn’t meant to make.

Bucky’s throat went dry.

He could have said it then. He could have reached across the small space between you and touched your hand, could have told you the truth that lived behind his ribs and made it hard to breathe.

He could have. He didn’t.

His mind raced with all the things that could go wrong: you stepping back, you looking at him with pity, you feeling pressured, you regretting you’d ever asked. He heard his own fear speaking over everything else, steady and convincing.

So he did what he always did.

He shut the door.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, forcing the word into something flat. “Of course.”

Your face still for a moment, like you were absorbing the impact. Then your expression rearranged itself into something gentler, more distant. A professional smile. A smile that didn’t ask anything of him.

“Right,” you said, and your voice was calm enough to be believable. “Just… checking.”

You turned away before he could see what it cost you.

The rest of the shift unfolded like a film he was watching through thick glass. You moved. You smiled. You laughed at customers’ jokes. You did your job beautifully.

But you didn’t look at him the same way again.

At 5:58 p.m., the café smelled like the end of day – spent grounds, sugar on the counter, citrus cleaner returning to claim the surfaces. Steve counted the register. You stacked chairs. Bucky wiped down the espresso machine with meticulous care, because focusing on the details kept him from thinking about the bigger thing he’d just ruined.

Outside, the sky had darkened to a bruised blue.

At 6:03 p.m., your phone buzzed.

You glanced at it, and something on your face softened – just a little, the way it did when you made a decision.

Clint’s name flashed on the screen.

Bucky saw it. Of course he did.

You typed a quick response, tucked your phone back into your apron pocket, and started untying your apron strings.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” you said lightly, as if tomorrow was guaranteed.

Steve waved. “Have fun!”

Bucky couldn’t make his mouth work. He nodded once, stiff, pretending the weight in his chest was nothing.

You hesitated at the employee door, hand on the handle. You looked back at them – at Steve, then at Bucky.

Your gaze held on Bucky for half a second longer.

There was something there. Something unspoken. Something that asked for one last chance.

Bucky stayed silent.

You gave him a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes, and then you left.

The door shut.

The café fell quiet, humming with fluorescent lights and the faint, stubborn scent of coffee.

Bucky stood behind the bar for a long moment, hands on the counter, staring at the spot where you’d been.

Outside, the rain started again – soft, steady, relentless.

And Bucky told himself – like he always did – that he’d made the right choice.

It didn’t make the ache any smaller.

The bell over the front door chimed at 7:58 a.m., bright and thin as the first line of daybreak.

Bucky froze with one hand still on the handle.

For half a second, his body reacted before his mind could catch up – muscles tightening, breath snagging, the old instinct to scan for threats flaring like a match. Then the warmth of the café hit him, the familiar smells and soft light, and he told himself – immediately, firmly – that he was being ridiculous.

It was just a morning. Just a door. Just a bell.

Except… it wasn’t.

The air inside carried the same layered scents as yesterday: sugar and yeast from the pastry case, citrus cleaner on the tabletops, the deep dark scent of coffee that seemed to live in the wood. The street outside was wet again, the pavement reflecting the sky in long broken mirrors. Even the rain looked the same, fine and reluctant, as if it couldn’t commit.

He stepped inside slowly, eyes tracking details in a way he couldn’t stop. The chalkboard menu. The stack of cups. The little jar of sugar packets. The plant by the window that leaned slightly toward the light.

Everything was where it had been.

You were behind the counter, already in motion, apron tied a little crooked, hair pinned up in that quick twist that always shed strands when you moved too fast. Your hands were busy with the espresso wand, the same practiced movements, the same efficiency that made the whole café feel like it was running on invisible rails.

And then you said, without looking up, “Morning, Buck.”

The words landed with a kind of quiet violence.

Bucky’s stomach dropped as if the floor had shifted beneath him.

He had heard that exact tone yesterday. Not just the phrase – the cadence, the small lift at the end, the way you made it sound like a private thing between the two of you. His brain snagged on it, stubborn, refusing to let it pass.

He forced his voice out. “Morning.”

He stepped through the employee entrance, and every movement felt like following a script he didn’t remember learning. Jacket on the hook. Hands in the sink. Water too hot for a second until he adjusted it – exactly the same way he’d adjusted it yesterday, fingers turning the knob without thinking.

He wiped his hands on a paper towel. The dispenser rattled in the same uneven rhythm.

He looked up at the clock above the chalkboard menu.

08:12.

The numbers were too neat. Too precise. Yesterday, he’d checked the time because he liked knowing where he was in the shift, how far from the rush, how long until Steve showed up late. Today – he checked because his mind was suddenly convinced that time was the only thing that could prove reality was moving forward.

You glanced at him over the grinder and smiled, small and easy. Not a smile that asked for anything. A smile that made his chest ache anyway.

“Steve texted,” you said, as you adjusted the pastry display. “He’s running ten minutes late.”

Bucky went still.

The words were so familiar they felt pre-recorded. He could hear the echo of them in his own memory, crisp and recent, like a line from a movie he’d watched last night.

He tried to speak, but his tongue didn’t want to cooperate. He swallowed. “Yeah?”

You didn’t notice anything strange. Why would you? You were already reaching for filters, tapping the register awake with the side of your thumb, sliding into the day like it was a well-worn coat.

Bucky moved because he had to. He pulled milk cartons out of the fridge and stacked them in their places, even though part of him wanted to stop and ask you what day it was. He didn’t. That would sound insane. He wasn’t… he wasn’t going to do that. Not in front of you.

He kept watching.

At 8:15, the first customer came in: a woman in a red coat, phone in hand, the same distracted expression. She ordered a cappuccino. She paused at the pastry case like she was considering a pain she could postpone with sugar. The bell chimed again when she left, and the sound felt like a marker he couldn’t erase.

Two students appeared next, damp-haired, coats flung over chairs at the window table, laptops snapping open like they were on a timer. Someone came in with a dog that shook rain across the tiles.

Every piece clicked into place.

Bucky’s palms went damp. He wiped them on his apron and told himself to breathe. He told himself he was noticing patterns because he was wired that way, because his brain catalogued little details. He told himself it was normal to recognize regulars, normal to remember orders, normal to sense repetition.

Except this wasn’t recognition.

This was replay.

Steve arrived at 8:27.

Not 8:28. Not 8:25. Exactly 8:27, cheeks pink from the cold, hair damp, expression bright and apologetic.

“Sorry,” Steve said, sliding in behind the counter. “Traffic was awful.”

“You’re buying us pastries,” you declared immediately, pointing at him with a grin. “Accountability.”

Bucky stared at Steve like he’d just walked out of a nightmare.

Steve’s eyes flicked to him, a subtle check-in. You okay?

Bucky didn’t know how to answer. Because if he said, I think I’m reliving yesterday, Steve would either laugh, worry, or – worse – look at him like he’d finally broken.

So Bucky did what he always did when his brain screamed and the world demanded calm.

He made his face blank and got through the moment.

The morning shifted into motion, the three of you falling into that effortless coordination that usually soothed him. Usually, it grounded him – the order of it, the way work made sense when feelings didn’t.

Today, it felt like being trapped in a song that wouldn’t end.

He kept trying to catch the day doing something different, like a proof he could hold in his hand. He waited for someone to order something unusual, for a cup to slip, for a customer to walk in at the wrong time. He listened for a mispronounced name. He watched the way light moved across the floor, expecting it to shift.

Everything stayed stubbornly, cruelly identical.

Around noon, the lull arrived with the same soft exhale. People lingered over lunch. The rain eased into a thin drizzle. The smell of toasted bread rose briefly from the back kitchen, then faded.

And Bucky began to feel the approach of it in his bones – like a storm you could sense before the clouds arrived.

He didn’t know why he knew, but he did.

The bell chimed at 12:41.

Clint Barton walked in.

Bucky’s heart slammed once, hard enough to hurt.

Clint shook out his jacket, rain droplets scattering, and grinned like he was greeting an audience. “Hey,” he said, voice easy and loud. “Tell me you’ve got something sweet today.”

You looked up and brightened. “Clint. We always have something sweet.”

Clint’s grin widened. “I meant you.”

It was the same line.

The exact same line.

Bucky’s hand tightened around the milk pitcher. Not enough to break it, but enough that he felt the metal give, the pressure translating into a faint bend. He loosened his grip quickly, as if that could undo the reaction.

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You want a cinnamon roll or not?”

Clint lingered, ordered, and then – like yesterday – leaned his elbows on the counter when Steve stepped away, angling himself toward you. Bucky hated that angle with a familiarity that made his skin crawl.

“You doing anything after your shift?” Clint asked.

You hesitated, glanced toward the schedule, then – quickly – your eyes flicked toward Bucky behind the bar.

Bucky felt that flick like a hand on his throat.

Clint followed your gaze, then turned. “Hey, Barnes,” he called, amused. “You gonna be a problem if I steal your coworker for a drink?”

The café seemed to hold its breath.

Yesterday, Bucky had answered without thinking. Today, he knew what came next. He could see the chain of moments like dominoes laid out in front of him: his own voice saying the wrong thing, your expression changing, you leaving at the end of the day with Clint’s name on your phone.

He could change it. Couldn’t he?

His mouth went dry.

He should say something different. Anything different. A joke. A deflection. A simple, Actually– A single word that would tilt the day onto a new track.

But fear was a muscle memory too.

Fear of being seen. Fear of taking up space in your choices. Fear of the look you might give him if he reached for something he didn’t deserve.

So his body chose the familiar script. The safe one. The one that hurt but didn’t risk humiliation.

“No,” Bucky said, voice even. “We’re just friends.”

Your face shifted in the same quick, controlled way it had yesterday. Like a light being turned down in a room. Like you were closing a door quietly so no one could accuse you of slamming it.

Clint looked satisfied, like he’d gotten confirmation of what he’d suspected. “Great,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”

You laughed, light and practiced. “Clint–”

“One drink,” Clint said. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You hesitated. You looked at the schedule. You looked at the door like it might offer you escape. Then you looked back at Clint and smiled smaller. “Okay,” you said. “Yeah. One drink.”

Bucky watched it happen and felt like he was standing outside his own body.

Clint left after making plans, the bell chiming behind him like punctuation.

The café returned to its normal sounds, but Bucky’s ears rang, the way they did after a loud blast. He moved through the rest of the shift as if he were underwater, everything slowed, dulled, distant.

He tried to catch your attention, to pull you back into the space between you where it had been warm. But you moved differently now. You smiled differently. Professional, gentle, distant.

When the rush faded and there was a sliver of quiet, you spoke to him like yesterday – soft, careful, private.

“Hey,” you said.

Bucky’s throat tightened. “What?”

You didn’t flinch at his tone. You just looked at him with that steady patience that always made him feel like he didn’t deserve you.

“Am I really just your friend?” you asked, quiet enough that no one else could hear.

The question hit in the exact same place as before, opening the same wound.

And Bucky – because he was apparently incapable of learning even when the universe handed him an entire second chance – did the same thing he’d done yesterday.

He shut the door.

“Yeah,” he said, flat. “Of course.”

You held his gaze for a heartbeat that felt too long. Then your expression smoothed into something calm.

“Right,” you murmured. “Just… checking.”

You turned away.

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

This time, though, the guilt was sharper, because he had known. He had watched it coming. He had still let it happen.

The shift ended the same way: citrus cleaner, stacked chairs, Steve counting the register. The sky outside bruised into evening. Your phone buzzed at 6:03, Clint’s name flashing on the screen.

You typed a quick reply, untied your apron, and said lightly, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Steve waved. “Have fun!”

Bucky nodded like his body belonged to someone else.

You hesitated at the employee door, hand on the handle. You looked back – Steve first, then Bucky.

For a fraction of a second, your eyes held on him, as if asking him – one last time – to say something. To stop being a coward. To stop letting you walk away.

Bucky stayed silent.

You left.

The door shut.

The café fell quiet, humming with fluorescent lights and the stale sweetness of the day.

Bucky stood behind the bar, staring at the spot where you’d been, heart pounding in his throat.

Outside, the rain started again, soft and steady.

The room dimmed.

The humming of the lights stretched, warped, as if someone had grabbed the edge of the sound and pulled. The world tilted.

Bucky blinked–

And the bell over the front door chimed at 7:58 a.m., bright and thin as the first line of daybreak.

He was standing with his hand on the handle.

The café was still waking up.

And your voice – warm, familiar, impossible – said, “Morning, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t move.

For a long moment, he just stared at you, feeling the cold certainty settle into his bones.

It hadn’t been déjà vu.

It hadn’t been memory.

It was the same day.

Again.

The bell over the front door chimed at 7:58 a.m.

Bucky didn’t jump this time.

He still felt it – his heart giving that hard, traitorous kick, his body bracing for impact – but now there was a thin layer of resignation over it, like ice on water. He stood with his hand on the handle a beat too long, listening to the sound fade, to the café’s quiet hum, to the soft rain outside.

Same.

He stepped inside.

The air hit him with the same scents, in the same order, like the world had memorized its cues: citrus cleaner, warm sugar, coffee so dark it felt like it had weight. The pastry case gleamed under the glass. The chalkboard menu angled slightly to the left. The plant by the window leaned toward the gray light.

You were behind the counter, apron tied crooked, hair twisted up, stray strands already escaping like they knew their job. Your hands moved with easy competence, wiping the espresso wand, tapping the register awake.

You didn’t look up when you said it. You never did.

“Morning, Buck.”

The words still landed wrong. Too perfect. Too exact.

Bucky forced himself to walk past the point where he’d frozen yesterday – yesterday, though it wasn’t yesterday anymore, not really. He cut behind the counter through the employee entrance, shrugged out of his jacket, hung it on the same hook. His hands went to the sink. The water came out too hot, he adjusted it. He could feel his own body trying to perform the day on autopilot.

He hated how much of him already knew the choreography.

He dried his hands and looked at the clock before he could stop himself.

08:12.

Of course.

His mind ran in tight circles. This is real. This is happening. You didn’t imagine it. You’re not losing it. The certainty was brutal, oddly clarifying. It wasn’t fear anymore so much as… strategy. If the universe wanted to trap him, then fine. He would treat it like anything else he’d survived: an environment to map, a problem to solve.

You turned and smiled at him over the grinder, small and easy, and it cracked something in his focus.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” you said.

It was so ordinary. So you.

Bucky’s mouth went dry. He nodded once. “Didn’t.”

You didn’t push. You just gave him that soft, sympathetic look you had when you didn’t want to embarrass someone with concern. Then you lifted your chin toward the back. “Want me to make you something?”

He should have said no. He should have stuck to the plan forming in his head. But the thought of you doing something for him – even something as simple as a coffee – hit him like hunger.

“Black,” he said.

You grinned. “So adventurous.”

He almost smiled back. Almost.

Then you said, casually, like you were reading from a script only you could see, “Steve texted. He’s running ten minutes late.”

Bucky’s stomach tightened.

He watched your lips shape the words. He watched the way your fingers tapped the register screen awake right after. He watched the way you didn’t even realize you were proving him right.

He swallowed. “Again?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He hadn’t meant to say it like that. He corrected quickly, covering. “Traffic. It’s always–”

“Always,” you agreed, rolling your eyes fondly. “He’s lucky we love him.”

We. The word slid under Bucky’s ribs. Warm. Dangerous.

He turned away before you could see anything on his face.

The first customer came in at 8:15–red coat, phone, cappuccino. Two students at the window table. Dog shaking rain onto the tiles. Bucky watched each piece fall into place with a sickening inevitability, like dominoes he couldn’t stop from tipping.

Steve arrived at 8:27, cheeks pink, damp hair, apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” Steve said. “Traffic was awful.”

“You’re buying us pastries,” you declared, pointing at him.

“Extortion,” Steve protested with a grin.

“Accountability,” you corrected.

Bucky stared at Steve a second too long.

Steve’s smile faltered, just slightly, because he knew Bucky well enough to feel when something was wrong. His eyes sharpened, the warmth still there but edged with concern. He leaned in while you turned to take an order.

“You okay?” Steve murmured.

Bucky’s throat tightened. He thought about saying it. Thought about letting the words exist outside his head: I’m trapped in the same day. He imagined Steve’s face – confusion first, then disbelief, then the quiet, steady acceptance Steve always managed when the world turned impossible.

But the café was open. Customers were watching. You were right there, close enough to hear if he wasn’t careful.

Bucky shook his head once. “Fine.”

Steve studied him for a beat like he didn’t buy it, then nodded like he wasn’t going to force it here.

The morning moved, and Bucky moved with it. He tamped grounds. He pulled shots. He steamed milk. He wiped counters. He listened to you laugh at a customer’s joke and felt his chest tighten, because he knew–knew–where the day was going.

This loop, he told himself, would be different.

He would find the seam. The crack. The place where reality could be pried open.

So he started small.

He changed his routine. He made a deliberate mistake with an order – swapped oat milk for almond, corrected it immediately when the customer frowned, offered a free pastry as apology. The customer accepted. Smiled. Left.

The day didn’t shift.

He took a different route to the storage room, walked past the back door, pushed it open just a few inches as if he might leave and keep walking until the world ran out of road.

The alley behind the café was wet and empty. Same dumpster. Same faint smell of rain on concrete. Same distant sound of traffic.

He shut the door and came back inside.

Nothing changed.

He tried a bigger thing.

Near noon, he stepped out from behind the bar and went to the register while you were turning to wipe a table. Steve glanced at him, surprised.

“You want me to–?” Steve started.

Bucky cut him off. “I got it.”

He faced the line of customers with a blank, controlled expression, took orders, typed them in. His hands didn’t shake. His voice didn’t crack. He could do this. He could do anything.

But each transaction felt like pressing his palm to a hot stove: manageable only because he refused to acknowledge the pain.

And then, like a timer, like a cruel little appointment with fate…

The bell chimed at 12:41.

Clint Barton walked in.

Bucky’s heartbeat spiked. He saw Clint like a bullet in slow motion, already in flight, already too late to stop.

Clint shook rain off his jacket, grinned at the room. “Hey,” he said. “Tell me you’ve got something sweet today.”

You looked up and brightened. “Clint. We always have something sweet.”

Clint’s grin widened. “I meant you.”

Bucky’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter.

He could hear his own voice from last loop, clear as a recording: We’re just friends.

Not this time.

Clint lingered, talked, waited until Steve stepped away, leaned toward you with that easy charm that made people feel chosen.

“You doing anything after your shift?” Clint asked.

You hesitated, and your eyes flicked – briefly, instinctively – toward Bucky.

The look hit Bucky harder than any of Clint’s words.

Because it wasn’t just about Clint.

It was about you asking him, without speaking: Should I? Would you care?

Clint followed your gaze, then turned, amused. “Hey, Barnes. You gonna be a problem if I steal your coworker for a drink?”

The café held its breath.

Bucky’s mouth opened.

And closed again.

Because the truth was right there, burning. He wanted to say, Yes. Yes, it would be a problem, but the sentence tangled with everything else he didn’t know how to say. Because I care. Because I want you. Because you’re the only thing that feels real.

And fear – old, ingrained, reflexive – rose up and shut his throat.

He heard himself choose the same shield, the same lie, as if his body preferred familiar pain to unknown risk.

“No,” Bucky said, voice even. “We’re just friends.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t argue. You didn’t look at him like he’d stabbed you.

You just went very still, the way a candle flame stills right before it gutters.

Clint’s expression turned smug, satisfied. “Great. Then it’s settled.”

You laughed lightly. “Clint–”

“One drink,” Clint insisted. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You looked toward the schedule. Toward the door. Toward anywhere that wasn’t Bucky. Then you looked back at Clint and nodded.

“Okay,” you said. “Yeah. One drink.”

Bucky felt the day slide back onto its rails with a nauseating click.

Clint left, the bell chiming behind him like punctuation.

The café resumed its normal noises, but Bucky could barely hear them over the roar in his head.

He tried to catch you – tried to pull you into the space where he could fix it – when the rush thinned and the world gave him a small pocket of quiet.

You spoke first, like you always did. Soft. Private.

“Hey,” you said.

Bucky’s throat felt too tight. “What?”

You looked at him with that steady patience that made him feel both seen and unworthy.

“Am I really just your friend?” you asked.

The question was the same, word for word, and yet it didn’t feel like repetition.

It felt like a wound being reopened on purpose, because maybe this time you wanted to see what was inside.

Bucky’s chest ached. He could feel the truth crowding his tongue. He could feel the moment offering itself – fragile, terrifying, real.

And he did what he’d done before.

He lied.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, forcing it flat. “Of course.”

Your gaze held for a heartbeat, heavy with something unspoken, and then your expression smoothed into professionalism. A small smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Right,” you murmured. “Just… checking.”

You turned away.

Bucky watched you go, and the guilt this time was sharper because he couldn’t pretend it had been an accident. He had chosen it.

The shift ended as it always did: citrus cleaner, stacked chairs, Steve counting the register, the sky bruising into evening. At 6:03, your phone buzzed. Clint’s name flashed.

You replied quickly, untied your apron, and said lightly, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Steve waved. “Have fun!”

Bucky nodded, stiff, as if nodding could hide the way his insides were coming apart.

You paused at the employee door, hand on the handle. You looked back – Steve first, then Bucky – and for a fraction of a second, your eyes lingered on him like a question.

He didn’t answer.

You left.

The door shut.

The café fell quiet, humming, smelling of coffee and the day’s leftovers. Bucky stood behind the bar, staring at the spot where you’d been. His hands felt too big, useless, like he’d been given tools and refused to use them.

The lights seemed to dim around the edges. The hum stretched thin, warping like a tape dragged too slowly across a head.

Bucky blinked.

The bell over the front door chimed at 7:58 a.m.

He was standing with his hand on the handle.

The café was still waking up.

And your voice – warm, familiar, impossible – said, “Morning, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t move at first.

Then he exhaled, slow and shaky, and let his forehead rest briefly against the doorframe, eyes closed.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, voice barely there. “Okay. So it’s real.”

He opened his eyes.

He stepped inside.

And this time, the certainty wasn’t just fear.

It was a promise.

The bell over the front door chimed at 7:58 a.m.

By now, the sound didn’t startle Bucky.

It did something worse: it confirmed.

He stood there with his hand on the handle, feeling the same thin winter air on the back of his neck, smelling the same wet street outside, watching the same pale light smear itself across the sidewalk like a tired brushstroke. His body had begun to learn the loop the way it learned everything–through repetition, through survival, through the quiet acceptance of what wouldn’t change.

Inside, the café was waking up. Citrus cleaner. Sugar. Coffee. The hum of the fridge. The muted whirr of the grinder you’d turn on in exactly fourteen minutes.

And you – already there, already in motion, apron tied crooked, hair twisted up, a few rebellious strands escaping like punctuation. You didn’t look up when you spoke, and somehow that made it feel even more inevitable.

“Morning, Buck.”

Bucky swallowed. “Morning.”

He went through the employee entrance like he always did, but his thoughts were louder than the clatter of cups, louder than the drip of rain against the windows.

Seventh time.

Six times he’d tried to catch the day doing something different. Six times he’d watched it click back into place with mechanical precision. Six times he’d heard himself say the same lie – We’re just friends – and watched your face close a door in the space between you.

Six times he’d watched you leave.

And six times the world had snapped shut and reset like a trap.

If he was losing his mind, then it was a very organized kind of madness.

He washed his hands. The water ran too hot for a second. He adjusted it without thinking.

08:12.

Of course.

You glanced over at him, and for a moment your expression softened with that familiar, quiet concern. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

He hadn’t. Because as soon as you passed the door after the end of your shift, the day reseted.

“Didn’t,” he said.

You didn’t press. You never did. You just nodded like you were filing it away with everything else you knew about him – carefully, gently, like he was something that could be bruised by too much attention.

“Want coffee?”

He hesitated. He wanted to say I want you, which was not an answer to that question. He cleared his throat. “Black.”

You smirked. “So adventurous.”

He almost smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Steve texted,” you added, tapping the register awake with your thumb. “He’s running ten minutes late.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to you.

You blinked at him, startled by the intensity of it. “What?”

He forced his shoulders down. Forced his voice level. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes a little, like you weren’t convinced, then let it go. You reached for filters, for cups, for ordinary tasks that made the world feel stable.

Bucky watched you move, and felt the guilt rise like bile. He didn’t want you in this. He didn’t want you looking at him like he was a problem to solve.

He wanted you looking at him like you wanted him back.

He turned away before his face could betray anything.

The morning unfolded exactly as it always did.

Red coat, cappuccino, phone. The two students claiming the window table like squatters. The dog shaking rain onto the tiles. The bell chiming in the same rhythm, as if the universe was keeping time with it.

Bucky worked with his hands because his mind wouldn’t stop.

He had decided – sometime during the sixth loop, when he’d watched you leave with that small smile that didn’t reach your eyes – that he couldn’t do this alone.

He couldn’t keep trying to out – stubborn reality. He needed an anchor. A witness. Someone who could tell him he wasn’t imagining it.

Someone who knew him well enough to recognize when the impossible was still, somehow, true.

Steve arrived at 8:27, cheeks pink from the cold, damp hair, apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” Steve said, sliding behind the counter. “Traffic was awful.”

“You’re buying us pastries,” you declared immediately, pointing at him with a grin.

“Extortion,” Steve protested.

“Accountability,” you corrected.

Bucky didn’t let himself stare this time. He let the moment happen, let Steve settle in, let the café absorb him like it always did.

Then he waited.

He waited for a pocket of quiet – one of those little gaps the day offered between orders, when the espresso machine cooled for a second and the chatter dipped. He waited until you were at the far end of the café, wiping a table that didn’t need wiping, laughing softly at something a regular had said.

He waited until Steve turned toward the back hallway to grab more cups.

Bucky followed him.

The back hallway smelled faintly of cardboard and coffee grounds, the kind of scent that clung to storerooms and never fully left. The fluorescent light flickered once overhead. Steve reached the shelf, pulled down a stack of cups, and then paused when he realized Bucky hadn’t stopped at the bar.

He turned, cups in hand. “What’s up?”

Bucky’s mouth went dry.

This was the part where he usually shoved things down and called them nothing. This was the part where he pretended he wasn’t scared.

But the loop had scraped him raw. He couldn’t afford pride. Not if he wanted out.

“Steve,” Bucky said, and his voice sounded wrong – too tight, too careful. “I need you to listen to me.”

Steve set the cups down slowly, as if he didn’t want to make any sudden movements. His expression shifted–still warm, but sharp now, attentive. “Okay.”

Bucky stared at the floor for a second, because looking Steve in the eye felt like stepping off a ledge.

“I think,” Bucky began, then stopped. Started again. “I know this is going to sound insane.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “You’ve said that before. It’s usually followed by something that makes sense later.”

Bucky let out a humorless breath. “Yeah. Well. This might not.”

Steve waited. Patient. Solid.

Bucky forced himself to lift his head. “I’m… stuck.”

Steve blinked. “Stuck where?”

“In today,” Bucky said.

The words hung between them, absurd and heavy.

Steve didn’t laugh. He didn’t dismiss it. He just frowned, the way he did when he was trying to solve a puzzle. “What do you mean, in today?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ve lived this day six times already.”

Steve’s brow furrowed deeper. He leaned his shoulder against the shelf, grounded, like he was bracing himself to hear the rest without flinching. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Tell me how you know.”

Relief hit Bucky so hard it made his eyes sting. The fact that Steve hadn’t immediately looked at him like he was broken – like he was beyond help – felt like air after drowning.

Bucky spoke quickly, before fear could steal his nerve again.

“Because you’re ten minutes late. Because the woman in the red coat orders a cappuccino at 8:15 and stares at her phone like it’s going to bite her. Because the dog shakes rain on the tiles and you make a joke about it smelling like wet carpet. Because Clint comes in at 12:41 and flirts and then asks if I’ll be a problem if he invites–” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Invites her out.”

Steve’s eyes flicked toward the café, toward you, even though the hallway wall blocked the view. When he looked back at Bucky, his expression had softened into something careful.

“And what happens?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky’s throat worked. “She says yes.”

Steve didn’t interrupt.

“And then,” Bucky continued, voice roughening, “later she asks me if she’s really just my friend. And I say–” His stomach twisted with shame. “I say yes. And then she leaves. And then–” He spread his hands helplessly. “I’m back at the door. 7:58. Like nothing happened.”

Steve was silent for a long moment.

Bucky waited, heart pounding, waiting for the moment Steve’s face would change. Waiting for disbelief. For pity. For the gentle suggestion that maybe Bucky should see a doctor.

Instead, Steve’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “Six times.”

“Six,” Bucky confirmed. “This is the seventh.”

Steve’s gaze tracked Bucky’s face, taking in the tension around his mouth, the exhaustion in his eyes. He looked… angry, suddenly, but not at Bucky. Like the universe had done something unfair and Steve wanted to punch it.

“Okay,” Steve said finally, voice steady. “Okay. Then it’s real.”

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You believe me?”

Steve gave him a look that was almost exasperated. “Buck. You’re not the type to make up a whole schedule of random strangers for fun.”

Bucky huffed, something like a laugh escaping despite himself.

Steve’s expression softened again. “And you look like you’ve been run over by a truck and then asked to do it again.”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged, a fraction of the weight slipping. “Yeah.”

Steve’s eyes flicked toward the café again – toward you – then back. “So. What do you think is causing it?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to say it. Saying it out loud made it real in a way that scared him.

But Steve had already heard everything else.

So Bucky forced the words through.

“It always breaks right after she leaves,” he said. “And the last thing that happens before that is–” His voice went tight, almost bitter. “Clint asking if it would bother me. And me saying it wouldn’t. Because we’re just friends.”

Steve’s eyes softened with something that looked a lot like understanding.

“Buck,” Steve said gently, “are you saying the loop’s about… you?”

Bucky’s mouth twisted. “Feels like it.”

Steve leaned forward slightly, voice quiet but blunt. “And are you in love with her?”

Bucky’s whole body went rigid, like Steve had pressed a bruise.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Steve watched him for a beat, then nodded slowly, like he’d just gotten the answer anyway. “Yeah,” Steve murmured. “Okay.”

Bucky looked away, jaw working. “I didn’t want to make it her problem.”

Steve’s tone turned very soft. “Buck, it’s already her problem. She’s the one getting hurt when you pretend you don’t care.”

Bucky flinched.

“Also,” Steve added, the corner of his mouth lifting, “I’m pretty sure time itself is making it your problem.”

Bucky let out a rough breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so tired. “Great.”

Steve straightened, practical now. “Alright. We need a plan.”

Bucky stared at him, a pulse of hope flickering despite everything. “A plan?”

Steve nodded once, firm. “Yeah. If the day keeps repeating, then you’ve got unlimited practice. Which means you’ve got unlimited chances to do something different.”

Bucky’s stomach sank as his mind snapped immediately to the one different thing that mattered.

Steve watched him, reading him the way he always could. “And if this loop doesn’t break until you’re honest–”

Bucky’s throat tightened.

Steve didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

The café bell chimed out front, and both of them turned their heads instinctively, as if the sound could reach through the hallway.

Bucky’s pulse spiked. He knew that sound, too. He knew what came with it and when.

Steve’s eyes met his.

“Okay,” Steve said, voice low, determined. “We’re going to get you out of this. But you can’t keep hiding. Not from me, and not from her.”

Bucky swallowed hard. His hands flexed at his sides, restless, terrified. He nodded once, small.

“Okay,” he managed.

Steve clapped him lightly on the shoulder, grounding him. “Good. Now–” He tilted his head toward the café. “Let’s get through the morning. And when Clint shows up…”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

Steve’s expression turned almost wicked, the kind of grin he wore right before he did something reckless in the name of doing the right thing. “We’ll be ready.”

Bucky didn’t feel ready. But for the first time since the loop started, he didn’t feel alone.

The thing that made it unbearable wasn’t the repetition.

It was the hope.

For a few hours in the fifth loop, hope sat in Bucky’s chest like a live ember – painful, bright, impossible to ignore. Steve had believed him. Steve had listened with that steady, unflinching focus that made the world feel less insane just by being present in it. Steve had looked at him and said, Okay. Then it’s real.

Bucky had walked back out to the bar with the strange, fragile sensation of being accompanied.

He had watched you move through the café – your hands, your smile, the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear when you were concentrating–and for the first time since the loop began, he’d thought: Maybe I can fix this. Maybe I can do it the right way.

Steve stayed close for the rest of the morning in a way that looked normal to everyone else but felt like a shield to Bucky. He took orders at the register with extra patience. He kept one eye on the door, like he could intercept fate if he timed it right. Every so often, when you weren’t looking, he’d glance at Bucky with a wordless you’ve got this that made Bucky’s stomach twist with gratitude and dread.

At 12:38, the air in the café shifted – subtle, but Bucky felt it like a change in pressure.

At 12:41, the bell chimed.

Clint walked in.

Rain on his shoulders, grin already loaded, voice bright enough to fill the room. “Hey,” Clint said. “Tell me you’ve got something sweet today.”

You looked up and brightened, like sunlight had been turned on. “Clint. We always have something sweet.”

Clint’s grin widened. “I meant you.”

Bucky’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter until the wood creaked faintly under the pressure.

Steve’s hand landed on Bucky’s shoulder – light, casual, a friend’s touch. Grounding.

Bucky didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. If he did, he might break.

He watched as Clint ordered and lingered, watched as Steve was pulled away by another customer, watched as Clint found that angle toward you like he’d practiced it in the mirror.

“You doing anything after your shift?” Clint asked.

Your smile faltered into that small, thoughtful hesitation. Your eyes flicked, quick and instinctive–toward Bucky, behind the bar.

Bucky felt the look like a hook under his ribs.

Clint followed it, turning with amused ease. “Hey, Barnes. You gonna be a problem if I steal your coworker for a drink?”

The café seemed to soften around the moment, sound dulling at the edges. The hiss of the espresso machine became a long exhale. The clink of a spoon against a cup rang too loud and then faded.

Bucky opened his mouth.

Everything he wanted to say rose up together, tangled and frantic: Yes. No. Don’t. Please. I–

Fear tightened around his throat like a hand.

He saw, in a flash, your face turning careful. Your smile turning polite. You stepping back.

He heard his own voice from the previous loops – flat, dismissive, cowardly – waiting in his mouth like it lived there.

Steve’s hand tightened once on his shoulder, a quiet warning: Don’t do it again.

Bucky’s chest burned.

He tried. God, he tried. He reached for honesty like it was a ledge.

And still – still – his tongue chose the safest lie, because anxiety was really stronger than wanting.

“No,” Bucky said, voice even. “We’re just friends.”

Steve’s hand fell away.

Not dramatically. Not like a punishment. Just… gone, as if Steve couldn’t hold him up if Bucky refused to stand.

You went still in the way Bucky had come to dread – the way something soft inside you folded shut without making a sound.

Clint’s grin sharpened, pleased. “Great,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”

You laughed lightly, the sound thin as paper. “Clint–”

“One drink,” Clint said. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You looked at the schedule. At the pastry case. At the door. Anywhere but Bucky.

Then you nodded. “Okay,” you said. “Yeah. One drink.”

Bucky watched it happen and felt sick with the familiarity of it. Like his hands were tied, except he was the one who kept tying the knots.

Later – later, when the rush thinned and the café gave you that small pocket of quiet–you approached him the way you always did. Softly. Privately. With care in your posture as if you were holding something fragile.

“Hey,” you said.

Bucky’s throat tightened. “What.”

You looked up at him, eyes steady. Too steady. Like you’d decided you deserved the truth even if it hurt.

“Am I really just your friend?” you asked.

The question didn’t feel rehearsed, even though the words were the same. It felt like you were asking it for the first time, every time. Like each loop was a fresh cut.

Bucky’s chest ached. Steve’s voice echoed in his head – You can’t keep hiding.

He should have said it then. He should have swallowed the terror and stepped into the space between you with both hands open.

Instead he did what he always did.

He made his face blank and closed the door.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, forcing it flat. “Of course.”

Something in your expression flickered – hurt, disappointment, resignation – all passing so quickly he barely caught it. You nodded once, small.

“Right,” you murmured. “Just… checking.”

You turned away.

From across the café, Steve watched you go, and Bucky didn’t miss the tightness in Steve’s jaw. The anger in his eyes wasn’t aimed at Bucky like hatred. It was aimed at the cruelty of watching him do this to himself.

The shift ended. Citrus cleaner returned. Chairs stacked. The sky outside bruised into evening. At 6:03, your phone buzzed, Clint’s name lighting up the screen like a verdict.

You texted back.

You untied your apron.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” you said lightly, as if tomorrow was normal.

Steve waved. “Have fun!”

Bucky nodded.

You paused at the employee door, hand on the handle, and looked back – Steve first, then Bucky. Your eyes lingered on Bucky for half a second longer, as if you were offering him a final opportunity.

Bucky stayed silent.

You left.

The door shut.

The café’s fluorescent hum thickened. The edges of the room dimmed as if someone had lowered the brightness on reality. The sound stretched, warped–like tape dragged too slowly.

Bucky blinked.

The bell over the front door chimed at 7:58 a.m.

Same wet street. Same pale sky. Same thin winter air.

Bucky stood with his hand on the handle, and for a brief, sick moment, the only thing he felt was exhaustion so deep it bordered on calm.

Then he stepped inside.

Citrus cleaner. Sugar. Coffee.

And you, behind the counter, apron tied crooked, hair twisted up, saying, without looking up: “Morning, Buck.”

He forced himself to move. Forced himself through the motions. Jacket on the hook. Hands in the sink. Water too hot–adjusted. The clock above the menu: 08:12.

His mind kept reaching backward, trying to hold onto the one piece of progress he’d made.

Steve knows. Steve believes you. You’re not alone.

At 8:27, Steve arrived–cheeks pink, damp hair, apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” Steve said, sliding behind the counter. “Traffic was awful.”

“You’re buying us pastries,” you declared with a grin.

“Extortion,” Steve protested.

“Accountability,” you corrected.

Bucky’s stomach clenched.

Steve’s smile was easy. Untroubled. Untouched by the weight of what he’d heard yesterday – yesterday, in the loop where Steve had leaned against the storage shelf and said, Okay. Then it’s real.

Bucky stared at him.

Steve noticed. His expression shifted, the warmth still there but now edged with concern. “What?” Steve asked quietly, lowering his voice. “You okay?”

There was no recognition in Steve’s eyes.

No memory.

No trace of the conversation in the hallway. No determination. No plan. Just Steve, as he always was, seeing Bucky’s tension and instinctively trying to help without knowing why.

Bucky felt something cold spread through his chest.

He leaned closer, voice low, urgent. “Steve. We talked. Yesterday.”

Steve’s brows drew together. “Yesterday?”

Bucky’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “In the back hallway. I told you–” The words jammed in his throat, because saying them again meant admitting they hadn’t mattered. “I told you I was stuck in today.”

Steve blinked, genuinely confused. “Buck…”

Bucky searched his face desperately for any spark. Any flicker. Anything.

There was nothing.

Steve’s confusion sharpened into worry, as if Bucky had just said something that didn’t fit in the shape of a normal day. He lowered his voice further, careful. “Hey. Did something happen? Are you–”

Bucky swallowed hard.

It wasn’t just that the day reset.

It was that everyone reset.

Everyone except him.

The loop didn’t give him allies. It gave him actors reading the same script with fresh eyes, over and over.

If he wanted Steve on his side, he’d have to earn it every time.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tasting coffee and bitterness.

Then he nodded once, like he was deciding something.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Something happened.”

Steve’s gaze sharpened. “Okay.”

Bucky looked past him, through the bustle of the café, to you – moving between tables with that bright, effortless grace, unaware of the trap you were stepping into.

He forced himself to meet Steve’s eyes again.

“I need you to listen,” Bucky said.

Steve’s expression softened into steady attention. “Always.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

It wasn’t comfort, this time.

It was dread.

Because he already knew what came next.

And he also knew – now, with cold certainty – that he was going to have to say it again. And again. And again.

Until either the universe broke.

Or he did.

The bell over the front door chimed at 7:58 a.m.

On the ninth time, Bucky didn’t even flinch.

He just stood there with his hand on the handle, letting the sound vibrate through his bones like an accusation. The street outside was wet in the same places. The sky was the same exhausted gray. The air tasted of rain and cold metal, and it felt almost cruel that the world kept offering him the exact same beginning like it expected him to finally deserve an ending.

Inside, the café waited.

Citrus cleaner and warm sugar. Coffee that clung to everything – wood, fabric, skin. The hum of refrigeration, steady as a heartbeat. The pastry case gleaming under soft lights. The plant by the window leaning toward a daylight that never quite committed.

And you, behind the counter, already moving, apron tied crooked, hair pinned up, loose strands threatening to escape. Competent. Bright. Real.

You didn’t look up when you spoke, like you trusted the rhythm of mornings to hold.

“Morning, Buck.”

Bucky swallowed around the tightness in his throat. “Morning.”

He went through the employee entrance. Jacket on the hook. Hands under the water that ran too hot for a second. Adjust it. Dry. Clock check – because he couldn’t help it.

08:12.

Of course.

You glanced over at him and your expression softened in a way that was always dangerously kind. “You look awful.”

That was new. Not the words – someone had said it at least once in the last eight days-but-not-days – but the bluntness of it, the fact that you let it sit between you without immediately trying to polish it into something gentler.

Bucky’s mouth twitched, humorless. “Feel great.”

You made a face. “Liar.”

He didn’t have the energy to deny it. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical; it lived behind his eyes, in the heavy drag of his thoughts. Each loop had peeled a layer of him off. He’d tried strategies. He’d tried stoicism. He’d tried being honest with Steve – only to watch Steve reset into someone who cared, but didn’t remember. He’d tried telling himself he could stomach another day, another lie, another quiet wound.

And then he’d watched you leave again.

He’d watched your face close again.

He’d watched his own cowardice play out again like a scene he hated but couldn’t skip.

By the eleventh loop, it wasn’t dread anymore.

It was a kind of desperate clarity.

He couldn’t do this again.

He wouldn’t.

The morning came in its usual predictable pieces. Red coat. Cappuccino. Phone. Students at the window. The dog shaking rain onto the tiles. Steve late and apologetic at 8:27, bright as always, asking if Bucky was okay.

Bucky gave him the same non-answer he always did, because there was no point in hauling Steve into the horror of it when Steve would wake up tomorrow with no memory and all the same concern.

You moved through the shift like you always did – efficient, warm, the kind of person who made a small place feel like home just by existing in it. You smiled at strangers, remembered regulars’ names, refilled sugar jars without being asked.

Bucky watched you and felt his chest hurt with something that no longer had room for denial.

It wasn’t complicated.

It was just… enormous.

He was scared of the gap between what you deserved and what he was.

He was scared that if he reached for you and you let him, you’d eventually realize you’d made a mistake.

He was scared that being close to you would feel like standing in sunlight with a cheap counterfeit coin in his pocket, knowing someone would notice it wasn’t real.

And in every loop, that insecurity had spoken louder than wanting.

Until now.

At 12:38, the air shifted, subtle but unmistakable. Bucky felt the approach of it like pressure building behind his ribs.

At 12:41, the bell chimed.

Bucky moved before Clint even fully cleared the doorway.

He didn’t do it like a fight. He didn’t lunge. He simply stepped into the narrow strip of space between the door and the café and planted himself there as if he belonged in that spot, as if he’d always been meant to stand guard over it.

Clint froze mid-step, blinking as if he’d encountered a new piece of furniture.

“Uh,” Clint said, tipping his head back a little to look up at him. “Hey, Barnes.”

Bucky stared at him. His hands were steady. His voice, when it came, was too.

“No.”

Clint’s brows shot up. “No… what?”

“No,” Bucky repeated, and it was almost calm, which made it worse. “Not today.”

Behind the counter, you looked up, startled. “Bucky?”

Clint’s mouth pulled into a grin that didn’t quite find its footing. “Okay, man, I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m literally just here for coffee and–”

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t give. He didn’t blink.

Clint shifted, half amused, half irritated. “Is this… a bit? Do you need to borrow five bucks or–”

“Not today,” Bucky said again, and there was something in his tone that finally scraped the humor off Clint’s face.

A beat of silence passed. The café’s background sounds continued without understanding: the grinder from the back, a spoon clinking somewhere, a customer laughing at a phone screen.

You came around the end of the bar, frowning, wiping your hands on your apron. “What is happening right now?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, and something softened – only a fraction. Like the harshness existed for the world, but not for you.

“Go to the back,” he said, low.

Your brows climbed. “Excuse me?”

Bucky swallowed. “Please.”

It wasn’t a command. It was almost… a request. A plea that made your concern spike into something sharper.

Clint lifted both hands slowly. “Okay. Wow. I’m just going to…” He backed up a step, still watching Bucky. “I can come back later. Clearly.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just held the doorway until Clint muttered something under his breath and turned away, retreating out into the rain.

The bell chimed as the door shut behind him.

You stared at Bucky as if he’d started speaking another language.

“Back,” he repeated, quieter.

You hesitated – then nodded once, a decision made on instinct. You waved Steve off when he started to ask, “Everything okay?” and you slipped through the employee entrance, letting Bucky follow you into the back hallway where the world smelled like cardboard and coffee grounds and quieter truths.

The storeroom light flickered once overhead. The shelves were lined with syrups and stacks of cups and spare napkins. The normal, boring bones of your workday.

You turned to face Bucky, arms folding over your chest, worry written plainly across your features. “Okay,” you said. “Start talking.”

Bucky stood there like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He flexed his fingers once, then curled them into loose fists, then forced them open again.

You watched him for a moment, eyes narrowing. “Wait a minute.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped up.

Your lips parted, and you said it with a kind of incredulous amusement, as if you couldn’t quite believe you were about to accuse him of something so human.

“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

The words hit him like a shove, not because they were cruel, but because they were too close to the truth.

Bucky exhaled, shaky. His shoulders lifted and dropped like he was shedding something heavy.

“Yes,” he said.

It came out so bluntly that you blinked. “Oh.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, as if he was swallowing down the urge to take it back. He didn’t.

“You can’t just–” you started, then stopped, recalibrating. Your worry softened into something else: confusion, curiosity, a fragile kind of hope. “Bucky, what is going on?”

He stared at you as if he was memorizing your face – like he was afraid the universe would steal it again. His eyes looked tired in a way you’d never really seen before, like he was carrying something that didn’t fit into one day.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

You frowned. “For… what?”

“For being an idiot,” Bucky said, and there was a bitter edge to it that made your stomach dip. “For letting… for–”

He cut himself off, breathing hard through his nose as if he was trying to find the right angle to say it without falling apart.

You took a step closer, slower this time. “Bucky. You’re scaring me a little.”

His gaze snapped to yours, alarmed. “No– no. I’m not– I would never–”

You held up a hand, gentle, as if smoothing the air. “I know. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

The immediate relief that crossed his face was raw, almost painful to watch. He nodded once, tight.

“That’s not…” He swallowed. “That’s not what I mean.”

You waited, giving him space. You didn’t push, but you didn’t retreat either.

Bucky dragged a hand over his face. His voice, when it came, was low and wrecked in a way it had no right to be over something as simple as a coworker asking about jealousy.

“It keeps happening,” he said.

You blinked. “What keeps happening?”

“This day,” Bucky said, and the words sounded like a confession and a curse at the same time. “Over and over.”

Your brow furrowed deeper. “Bucky…”

“I know how that sounds,” he cut in quickly, breath sharp. “I know. But it’s true. I’ve watched you–” His throat tightened around the next part, around the image he could never seem to stop replaying. “I’ve watched you say yes to him. I’ve watched you walk out that door. And then–” He snapped his fingers once, a harsh little sound. “I’m back at the front. Same bell. Same time. Same everything.”

You stared at him.

For a second, you looked like you might laugh – not because it was funny, but because it was too strange to accept without some kind of release.

Then you didn’t. Your face shifted instead into something careful, like you were trying to decide whether this was a joke, a breakdown, or a truth you hadn’t earned the context for.

“How many times?” you asked softly.

Bucky’s mouth twisted. “Eleven.”

Your eyes widened. “Eleven– Bucky, that’s–”

“I know,” he said, voice cracking. He looked away for a moment, shoulders caving inward as if the number was too big to carry in the open. “And every time, I tell myself I can handle it. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that it’s not my business, that you can do whatever you want and I shouldn’t–”

He cut himself off, shaking his head.

You stepped closer again, reaching out before you could overthink it. Your fingers brushed his forearm – light, tentative. A question in touch form.

Bucky went still at the contact like it was a lifeline.

“You’re exhausted,” you murmured. “You’re… you look like you’ve been living a week in one day.”

He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, except it didn’t have humor in it. “Yeah.”

You swallowed. “Okay. I don’t– I don’t understand. But I’m listening.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours, and something in him seemed to falter. Not in weakness. In surrender.

“That’s why I didn’t say anything,” he said quietly. “Not because I thought I’d hurt you. Because I didn’t think I was… worth the trouble.”

Your brows pulled together, hurt flashing quick. “Bucky.”

He shook his head, words tumbling out now that the dam had cracked.

“You’re…” He gestured helplessly, as if you were too much to describe with language. “You’re good. You’re bright. You walk into a room and it becomes easier to breathe. People like you. You make things better just by existing.”

Your throat tightened. “Okay, and–”

“And I’m… me,” Bucky said, rough. “I’m quiet and I’m awkward and I don’t– I don’t do the easy thing. I don’t know how to flirt, I don’t know how to be… what you deserve.”

You stared at him, the pieces clicking into place in a way that made your chest ache.

“Bucky,” you said, softer now, “that’s not–”

He cut you off, voice breaking in the middle of his insistence. “It is. It is in my head every time I look at you. Every time you smile at me. I keep thinking, if I let myself want you out loud, you’ll look at me and realize you could have anyone. Anyone. And you’d be right.”

Silence filled the storeroom, thick and humming.

You could hear the muffled sounds of the café beyond the door–orders, laughter, the espresso machine sighing. The world moving forward for everyone else.

You took a breath, steadying yourself.

“So,” you said slowly, as if testing the shape of the word, “you’re jealous.”

Bucky’s mouth twisted. “Yes.”

“And you stopped Clint from coming in,” you continued, voice gentler than your words, “because… you couldn’t watch it happen again.”

Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut for a second. “Yes.”

You stared at him, and then a small, incredulous laugh escaped you–not mocking, just overwhelmed.

“Bucky,” you breathed, “if you wanted to ask me out, you could’ve just–”

“I know,” he cut in, immediate and pained. “I know. But in the first– in the beginning, I thought if I said it, it would ruin what we have. And then it became… easier to let you think I didn’t care than to risk you knowing I do.”

You swallowed. The air felt tight in your lungs.

“And you do?” you asked, because you needed to hear it in plain language, not implied by jealousy and doorways and impossible days.

Bucky opened his eyes.

He looked at you like he was finally letting himself.

“Yes,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “I do.”

His hands hovered at his sides, uncertain, as if he wanted to reach for you but didn’t trust himself not to be refused.

“I’m in love with you,” Bucky said, and the confession sounded like a surrender and a promise all at once. “I have been for a long time. And I’ve been acting like a coward because I kept thinking you’d eventually figure out I’m not… enough.”

Your throat tightened so hard it almost hurt.

For a moment, you didn’t know what to do with the tenderness in your chest. It was too big for your ribs. Too bright.

So you did the simplest thing.

You stepped into him.

Your hands found the front of his apron, curling there, holding on like you’d been waiting for permission.

Bucky’s breath hitched. His eyes went wide, startled, then softened into something painfully relieved.

“Bucky,” you whispered, “I don’t care about ‘enough.’ I care about you.”

He stared at you, as if the words didn’t make sense in his world.

“I–” he started.

You shook your head once, small and sure. “I’ve been asking you with my eyes for months whether you’d care if someone else asked me out. I’ve been giving you chances because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Bucky’s face tightened, guilt and disbelief mixing. “And I–”

“You panicked,” you finished gently. “Yeah. I noticed.”

A beat.

Then you smiled, soft and real. “But you’re not panicking right now.”

Bucky swallowed, his voice rough. “No.”

“Good,” you murmured. “Because I’m going to say something and I want you to believe me.”

He held still, like the room might shatter if he moved.

You rose onto your toes just slightly, close enough that your breath warmed his mouth.

“I like you,” you said quietly. “A lot. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

Bucky’s eyes went glossy, startled by the rawness of his own relief.

“You–” he managed, voice cracking. “You do?”

You gave him a look that was half amused, half exasperated. “Bucky. You think I keep saving you the last cinnamon roll because I’m nice?”

Something like a laugh broke out of him, disbelieving and shaky.

You squeezed his apron, grounding him. “Ask me out.”

Bucky stared at you like he was afraid the words would vanish if he blinked. Then he nodded once, determined, and the insecurity in his face didn’t disappear – but it did soften, like it was finally being met instead of fed.

“Will you go out with me?” he asked, voice low. Honest. “Not because Clint asked. Not because it’s… the end of the day. Just– because I want to. Because I want you.”

Your smile turned bright in a way that made the storeroom feel lit from the inside.

“Yes,” you said, immediate. “Yes. God, yes.”

Bucky’s breath left him like he’d been holding it for eleven lifetimes.

His hands came up – slow, careful, still asking permission even now – and he cupped your face as if you were something precious and real.

You leaned into the touch without hesitation.

“Okay,” Bucky whispered, as if he was trying the word on for size. “Okay.”

You tilted your head, playful now, because the seriousness was heavy and you wanted to remind him you were still here. “So… am I allowed to ask why you were acting like the world was ending?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “It kind of was.”

You blinked. “Bucky.”

He gave you a look – half helpless, half fond – that said I know how that sounds.

“You don’t have to understand,” he murmured. “Just… stay.”

You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky’s eyes softened, and then – finally – he closed the distance.

His kiss was gentle at first, like he was afraid the universe might punish him for it. Then you kissed him back with certainty, hands firm on his apron, and he made a quiet sound in his throat that was all relief and disbelief.

Somewhere out in the café, the espresso machine hissed.

The fluorescent light above the storeroom stopped flickering.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the air didn’t feel like it was waiting to snap back.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, forehead resting against yours.

“Did I… fix it?” he whispered.

You smiled, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I have no idea what ‘it’ is.”

Bucky let out a shaky laugh. “Fair.”

You kissed him again, quick and sweet. “But if you wanted a sign that being honest was a good move… there you go.”

Bucky’s eyes closed for a second. When he opened them, there was still insecurity there – still that quiet fear of not being enough – but it was threaded through with something new.

Trust.

And when you took his hand and led him back toward the café, he followed like he’d finally stopped waiting for permission to be happy.

The bell over the front door chimed at 7:58 a.m.

Bucky’s heart lurched anyway – because it had learned to – but the world didn’t tilt.

There was no snapping sensation at the edges of his vision, no sickening sense of being yanked backward by an invisible hand. The sound of the bell didn’t feel like a cue; it felt like what it had always been: a bell. A small announcement of someone arrived.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, fingers still on the handle, and let himself absorb the simple fact that his body was cold in a new way. The air outside carried a different bite. The street was wet, but the puddles had shifted, moved, reshaped themselves overnight. The sky wasn’t the exact same exhausted gray; it had a faint bruise of lavender at the horizon that promised sunlight later.

He looked down at his phone with a kind of reverence.

The date had changed.

The numbers were different.

He exhaled, slow and shaking, and laughed under his breath – not because it was funny, but because the relief didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Inside, the café smelled like itself, but not like a trap. Citrus cleaner, yes, and warm sugar, and that dark, grounding coffee scent that lived in the wood. But there was something else too: the faint newness of morning that hadn’t been wrung dry by repetition yet.

You were behind the counter when he stepped in, already moving, apron tied crooked like always, hair pinned up – though the twist was slightly neater today, as if you’d taken an extra minute.

When you looked up and saw him, your expression changed in a way it never had in any of the loops.

You didn’t just smile.

You lit up.

“Morning,” you said, and there was something private in the word now, something that made it feel like a hand slipped into his.

Bucky’s throat tightened. “Morning.”

He didn’t have to pretend he was fine today. He didn’t have to swallow panic and call it normal. His shoulders still felt heavy with the memory of eleven identical days, but the weight sat differently – like a coat he could take off, instead of a cage he couldn’t.

He went through the employee entrance and hung his jacket on the hook. The motion was the same, but it didn’t feel like a script. It felt like routine, and routine was suddenly a gift.

He washed his hands and glanced toward the clock before he could stop himself.

It read 8:11.

Not 8:12.

A small difference. A stupid difference. The kind that shouldn’t matter.

Bucky stared at it until his vision blurred slightly, and then he let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

You appeared beside him without a sound, leaning your hip lightly against the counter the way you did when you had something to say but didn’t want to make it a big thing.

“Hey,” you murmured.

He turned his head. Your eyes were warm, searching his face with a concern that didn’t feel clinical anymore. It felt… invested.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Hey.”

You studied him for a beat, then reached out and tugged gently on the edge of his apron, like you were checking it was tied.

“You’re really here,” you said quietly.

Bucky’s chest tightened. “Yeah.”

You held his gaze, and your smile went softer, more real. “Good.”

A moment passed – small, ordinary, but threaded through with the knowledge of yesterday in a way that made it feel like something sacred.

Then the bell chimed again, louder this time, and Steve Rogers barreled in with a paper bag almost as big as his torso.

“Okay,” Steve announced, cheeks pink from the cold, hair damp, eyes bright with triumph, “I’m here, and I am making amends.”

He dropped the bag onto the counter like it was a peace offering.

The smell hit instantly – butter and sugar and something cinnamon – heavy that made the café feel warmer just by existing.

You blinked at him. “Steve.”

Steve pointed at the bag, earnest as ever. “Pastries. Plural. I remembered.” He lifted his brows toward Bucky as if expecting applause. “And I’m not late.”

Bucky stared.

It was such a stupid detail. Such a tiny thing. Steve arriving with pastries – the promised ones – when in all the loops he’d only ever promised them and never actually brought them. But it landed in Bucky’s chest like proof stamped in ink.

Different.

Real.

You made a sound that was half laugh, half delighted groan. “You actually did it.”

Steve’s grin widened. “I’m a man of my word.”

You reached into the bag and pulled out a pastry, holding it up like evidence. “And a man of butter.”

Steve put a hand to his chest. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Bucky watched the exchange with a strange, quiet gratitude. In the loops, everything had been inevitable, each moment a rail he couldn’t leave. Today, the day was moving on its own, making new choices, creating new little branches.

His gaze flicked to you again. You caught him looking and smiled – quick, private. The kind of smile that made his chest ache for entirely different reasons than before.

Steve followed the look without meaning to. His eyes bounced between the two of you, and something in his expression shifted – curiosity, then recognition, then a slow, dawning oh.

He didn’t say anything. He just hummed thoughtfully and opened the pastry bag wider.

“Alright,” Steve said, too casually, “who wants the first pick?”

“Me,” you said immediately.

Steve nudged the bag toward you. You took one and then – without thinking too hard about it – took another and slid it toward Bucky.

Your fingers brushed his for half a second.

Bucky felt the touch all the way through him, warm and grounding. He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

He looked up at you, and the gratitude in his eyes made your mouth curve into something even softer.

Steve cleared his throat loudly, the kind of theatrically innocent noise that meant I saw that.

You shot him a look. Steve raised both hands. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to,” you muttered, but you were smiling.

The morning unfolded differently in a hundred tiny ways after that.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic.

Just… human.

A regular who usually ordered a cappuccino ordered tea instead. Someone spilled sugar and apologized. The dog that always shook rain on the tiles didn’t come in at all. The sun broke through the clouds at 10:06 and threw a stripe of light across the floor, bright enough to make the dust motes look like glitter.

Bucky kept expecting the pressure in his chest to rise at noon, kept expecting the air to tighten like a trap being set.

It didn’t.

When 12:41 arrived, the bell chimed, and Clint Barton walked in – grin already loaded, the exact same entrance as always except for the rain on his jacket.

Bucky’s pulse jumped, but this time he didn’t move to block the door.

He didn’t need to.

Clint’s eyes found you immediately. “Hey,” Clint called, sliding up to the counter like he owned the place. “Tell me you’ve got something sweet today.”

You looked up and smiled.

Not the polite, automatic smile of customer service.

A pleasant smile. Friendly. Uninviting in a way that was subtle but unmistakable.

“Hi, Clint,” you said. “We’ve got cinnamon rolls, croissants, muffins…”

Clint leaned his elbows on the counter, grin sharpening. “You know what I mean.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed instinctively. His hand hovered near the coffee machine, fingers flexing.

You didn’t glance at Bucky this time.

You didn’t look to him for permission, or for a sign, or for whether he would care.

You simply tilted your head and said, with calm, easy certainty, “I’m actually seeing someone.”

Clint blinked.

It was almost comical how quickly his confidence stalled, like a bike hitting a patch of gravel. “Oh,” he said. “Uh. Wow. Okay.”

You nodded once, still gentle. “Yeah.”

Clint’s gaze flicked past you – toward Bucky behind the bar. Something in his expression shifted, curious, then faintly amused.

Bucky kept his face neutral, but his ears went hot.

Clint’s grin returned, smaller now, more genuine. “Well,” he said, lifting both hands in surrender, “good for you.”

“Thanks,” you replied.

Clint straightened, shaking off the moment with a lightness that suggested he’d take the L without making it weird – miracle of miracles. “In that case,” he said, tapping the counter, “I’ll take a coffee and one of those cinnamon rolls. I still deserve sweetness in my life.”

You chuckled. “Sure.”

Bucky made the coffee, because it was his job and because he could, because he was no longer trapped in an endless loop of watching you choose someone else. He slid the cup across the counter.

Clint accepted it, then leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice just enough to be annoying. “So,” he murmured, “is it… him?”

You didn’t miss a beat.

You just smiled – bright, unapologetic – and said, “Yeah.”

Bucky nearly dropped the pitcher in his hand.

Clint let out a low whistle. “Damn,” he said, and then, with surprising sincerity, “Okay. You two make sense.”

He took his coffee, nodded once at Bucky – almost respectful – and walked away.

The bell chimed as the door closed behind him.

For a moment, the café’s normal noises filled the space again: the grinder, the chatter, the soft clink of cups.

Bucky stood very still behind the bar, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

You came around the end of the counter and stopped close to him, just inside his orbit. Your expression was bright, but your eyes were searching, checking him.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

Bucky let out a shaky breath. Then he nodded once, decisive.

“I’m okay,” he said, and his voice sounded like someone who finally believed it.

You smiled, and without thinking too hard about who might see, you reached for his hand beneath the counter, fingers threading with his.

Bucky’s shoulders eased like he’d been holding them up for nine days straight.

Steve, on the other side of the café, pretended very loudly to be deeply invested in arranging pastries.

Bucky looked at you, the day moving forward around you, messy and bright and unpredictable in the best possible way.

“Real tomorrow,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You squeezed his hand. “Real tomorrow,” you echoed, like a promise.

And this time, the universe didn’t argue.