In retrospect, having no friends is not a good excuse for inviting a potentially dangerous man into my apartment. If anything, it just means no one would notice I was missing—at least not until the neighbors complained about the smell. And in this building, that could take years.
I finished unlocking the fortress I called a front door and stepped inside he followed behind. The layout was identical to his: a cramped studio. The only real difference? Mine didn't look like a crime scene.
"Quick tour," I said, gesturing lazily. "Bed's on the left—with actual sheets. Desk and computer on the right. Kitchen straight ahead, complete with a sad plastic table."
I opened the little white fridge tucked into the corner and prayed I had anything worth offering. With how often the power cuts out—and how broke I am—I usually don't keep much in there. Miraculously, I spotted two Silva beers. Not so miraculously, they were warm. Guess the power went out again.
I grabbed them anyway and reached for the bottle opener in the drawer. "Hope you're okay with warm beer," I said over my shoulder. "Better yet, hope you drink." I let out a small, nervous laugh.
I turned around, expecting to find him seated at the table. Instead, he was still standing in the entryway, frozen like a statue. He hadn't moved much past the door—just standing there, eyes scanning every inch of the apartment like he was mentally mapping it.
"Do you drink?" I asked again, holding out one of the beers.
"Yeah... I think," he said, uncertain—like he genuinely wasn't sure.
He walked over slowly, the floor creaking beneath his boots. He took the beer with what I assumed was his non-metal arm—it was hard to tell. He was layered up: a black denim jacket over a faded red long-sleeve shirt, frayed cuffs dangling at the wrists. Black jeans, combat boots, gloves—leather, despite it being the middle of May—and a baseball cap pulled low. The message was clear: don't ask about the arm.
"So, I never caught your name," I said as I leaned back against the counter. "I'm Elizabeth, but everyone just calls me Liza—or Liz."
"Bucky," he replied, then took a drink.
"Want to sit, Bucky?" I offered, gesturing to the sad little table before realizing there was only one chair. "Go ahead," I added quickly, then hopped up onto the kitchen counter and crossed my legs.
He placed his bag of plums on the table and leaned against the adjacent wall instead. "I'll stand."
The silence that followed was thick—awkward but not unbearable. Every now and then it was broken by the quiet clink of glass as we took sips.
"So, what are you always reading?" I asked. "I see you bringing back books all the time. You some kind of genius?"
A hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. "No. Just... catching up."
"Catching up?" I raised an eyebrow. "You're, what, thirty at most? What could you possibly be behind on?"
"It's a long story," he said, eyes distant. "Let's just say I've been asleep for a long time."
He had a talent for half-answers, but oddly enough, they didn't feel dishonest.
"Well, why not go to a museum or something?" I offered. "They're good for, you know, catching up."
"I don't like crowded places," he said, draining the rest of his beer. "Too many people."
"Fair," I nodded. "Maybe I could go with you. Crowds are easier if you know someone in them."
I jumped off the counter and stepped forward, holding out my mostly-full beer. "I don't drink much, and the way you downed yours... pretty sure you'd enjoy the second one more than I will."
He reached out to take the beer from me, and our fingers brushed. I flinched—barely, but enough.
Bucky noticed. He pulled his hand back instinctively, and the bottle slipped.
It hit the floor.
Glass exploded across the dark hardwood with a sharp crash, a sound far too loud in the cramped silence of my apartment.
"Oh shit," I breathed.
We both froze, our eyes locked on the mess. My mind wasn't in the room anymore—it was back in my childhood kitchen.
Plates smashing against walls.
My mother sobbing into her hands.
Yelling. Always yelling.
I blinked hard, forcing myself to focus back to the present. Bucky hadn't moved. He stood perfectly still, hand hovering just above his hip—right where a gun was holstered. Same one from the other night.
"It's okay," I said quickly. "I'll grab the broom and clean it up."
He didn't answer. For a second, it looked like he wasn't breathing. But when I turned toward the closet, he exhaled and stepped to the side, retreating toward my desk.
His gaze followed me—watchful, wary, like he was still in a fight his body hadn't quite left.
I pulled out the broom and dustpan, turning to find him much closer than before.
"I'll do it," he said, gently taking them from my hands.
"Oh, you don't have to—I can—"
"It's fine," he interrupted. "You might hurt yourself."
"And you won't?" I asked, one brow lifting.
"No. I'm good at cleaning up messes."
There was something in the way he said it—final, cold, heavy. I didn't push.
Instead, I passed him a small trash bag. While he swept, I grabbed a rag to soak up the beer puddle bleeding across the floorboards. We worked in silence, trading tools once the sweeping was done—him, the rag; me, the bag of glass.
He rose with a quiet grunt and tossed the rag into the sink. I dropped the trash bag into the bin with a soft clink.
"Sorry," he said, voice low.
I turned. His posture had stiffened again, as if bracing for some kind of scolding. His eyes avoided mine.
"It's fine. Not your fault," I replied, "I'm sorry it was the last one though." I said with a hesitant chuckle. Trying to break the awkward moment
"I should head back. Thanks for the drink."
Before I could even say goodbye, he'd grabbed his bag of plums and was out the door.
I stared at the closed door for a few moments longer than I should've.
He's odd—but not in a bad way. There's something about him that doesn't sit right. Not because I don't trust him… but because he doesn't seem like someone who belongs here. Not really.
His body's trained for violence, but his voice—his movements—are careful. Like he's afraid of taking up too much space. Or breaking something else. But yet somehow he seems kind.
I spotted the plum he'd given me still sitting on the counter. The fridge had long since turned into a hotbox of despair, so… I guess this would have to be dinner.