The next day, I came home to find a bag hanging from my doorknob.
Not expecting any deliveries, I hesitated before opening it—half-nervous, half-curious.
Inside: a six-pack of Silva beer.
I let out a surprised chuckle, cheeks warming as my eyes instinctively flicked to the apartment across the hall.
His door.
I bit my lip, a flutter blooming low in my stomach.
Seriously, is it really this easy to win me over?
I stepped inside, locked up, and changed into a pair of grey sweatpants and a black tank top, tying my dark hair up into a messy bun.
Back in the kitchen, I leaned against the counter, staring at the beer.
It had been a long time since anyone gave me something just... because. Maybe this was normal for other people.
But for me? It felt like a lightning bolt out of nowhere.
Next thing I knew, I was standing in front of his door, six-pack in hand, heart pounding in my ears.
What am I even doing?
It's three in the afternoon—who drinks at this time?
I should go back.
I knocked lightly on the door.
Silence.
No footsteps. No shifting. No creaking floorboards.
He's probably not home, I thought, turning back toward my door. I started working through my personal obstacle course of locks when—
"What?"
I spun around.
He stood in his doorway, same worn red shirt and black jeans from yesterday, left arm kept carefully out of sight behind his body. His expression unreadable.
I held up the beer.
"I just wanted to say thanks for this," I said, feeling suddenly hyper aware of myself.
"But, you know… six is kind of a lot to drink alone. Want to join me?"
He stared for a moment—no smile, no visible emotion. I started to feel ridiculous.
"Where?" he asked, finally.
"My place?" I thumbed toward my door, now unlocked and wide open. Without waiting, I turned and went inside, leaving it ajar for him to follow.
Clink. I popped the tops off two bottles. Behind me, I heard the familiar thunk of my door closing and the soft jingle of the chain lock settling into place. I didn't hear him lock it—but he did. Somehow silently.
He stepped into the room, stopping in the entryway where the sunlight from the window spilled across the floor and caught the edge of his boots.
"I was just about to close those," I said, nodding at the blackout curtains. "No light gets in with them."
I set the beers down and climbed onto the bed, crawling across to tug the curtains shut.
Darkness swallowed the room. I hadn't turned on the lights.
Click.
"Your lights dead?" Bucky's low voice cut through the black.
"I think the power's out," I replied. "That would explain why my computer's off. Was yours working?"
A beat of silence.
"I don't turn the lights on usually," he said.
I swallowed hard. There was something oppressive about the dark—thick and heavy, like it might collapse in on me. My breath quickened. My fingers gripped the cold metal frame of the bed. The curtain was inches from my hand, but I couldn't seem to reach it again.
For some reason, his voice helped. Just hearing him kept me from getting swallowed whole.
Then, suddenly—light.
The front door was open.
I hadn't even heard him move.
"I guess we're not drinking in here, huh?" I tried to laugh, hoping he couldn't hear the quiver in my voice—or the thudding of my heart that echoed.
"I don't really like the dark either," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the hallway light pouring through the doorway.
"Oh, yeah? Well…" I stepped toward him, feeling steadier in the light. "Maybe we could go to one of those museums instead. You know, do some of that catching up you talked about?"
He turned to look at me. In the soft light, I could finally really see him.
Sharp jaw. A few days' worth of scruff.
That fading bruise near his temple.
His Icey blue eyes held something behind them—not coldness, but history. Layers of it.
I wondered what story that bruise told.
But I didn't ask.
I figured he'd tell me… when he was ready.
His eyes scanned my face as if trying to memorize every detail. I caught myself doing the same to him.
His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—but nothing came out.
"I just need to change really quick," I said, stumbling over my words. "There's a museum not far from here, just a few train stops away. It's, um… kind of an Avengers museum. Not very big, though."
His eyes brightened—just a flicker, but enough for me to notice.
"Okay."
"I just have to change first. Could you, um… step out for a second?"
As if waking from a trance, he broke eye contact and slipped outside, leaving the door cracked open. His body filled the narrow gap—broad shoulders and back blocking any outside view, but allowing a slice of hallway light to spill inside.
I quickly grabbed clothes and darted into the bathroom, brushing through my hair and letting it fall loose around my shoulders. Black leggings, and a knitted cardigan striped in mustard yellow, deep brown, and auburn. I tossed the hood over my head, grabbed my small black crossbody from the wall hook, and swung the door fully open.
He was still there.
Still holding space.
Still keeping the light in.
As I locked the door behind me, I heard the soft creak of his own apartment door opening. I turned to see him slip inside.
Are we not going anymore? I wondered.
But a moment later, he reappeared wearing a faded black baseball cap and a large black coat—similar to yesterday's, but not the same.
"Ready?" I asked, stepping toward the stairs.
He nodded, following silently behind.
The trip to the museum was quiet. We didn't speak, and we didn't need to. It felt like we were both hiding—but not from each other.
We cut through alleyways and back stairwells to avoid crowds. He kept a few paces behind, just far enough to look like a stranger, but close enough for me to feel his presence. That balance said more than words could have.
We slipped in through the museum's back entrance—neither of us interested in paying the 43 lei for admission. He didn't question it. Just followed.
Inside, we wandered the small exhibits side by side. A few artifacts. Framed headlines. Bits of memorabilia that probably meant more to some than others.
Then I realized he was gone.
I scanned the room and spotted him across the way, standing in front of a display about Captain America. It was a simple wall panel—old photographs, brief summaries, a few newer shots from recent battles. A video loop played nearby, showing footage of interviews and stories of the Captain's heroism: the plane crash, the 70-year sleep, the war, the aftermath.
Bucky stood frozen, staring at it like he was seeing a ghost.
His face was tight—pain barely contained beneath the surface.
I walked over quietly.
He didn't react to my presence, eyes still locked on the screen.
"So… that's how," he muttered.
"What?" I asked softly.
"I always wondered how he stayed so young. After all this time…"
His voice was distant, like he was talking to himself more than to me.
The screen looped again. I stepped forward and pulled a pamphlet from the rack beneath the display.
"Here," I offered gently, "this has all the same stuff on it."
He glanced at it. Slowly, cautiously, he reached out. His gloved fingers brushed mine—cool leather, trembling slightly. He took it like it might break in his hands.
Then, from his coat pocket, he pulled out a small, worn notebook and tucked the pamphlet inside. He closed it carefully, still staring at the cover like it held something sacred.
"I don't remember a lot," he said quietly. "Some people took those things from me."
There was a hollow ache in his voice—like someone grieving not a person, but pieces of themselves.
My chest tightened.
"You write it down, so you don't forget?"
His eyes met mine. There was no wall between us in that moment.
"Yes," he said. "Just in case."
It was the first thing he had said without being prompted.
I felt something swell inside me—pride, maybe.
Like a wounded animal had just taken its first cautious step toward me.