Whispers Through Broken Glass

by christipandalily

Summary:

No confessions, no promises. Just a balcony, a breath, and a hand that didn’t pull away. In the quiet, when the world wasn’t watching, they found something neither of them thought they deserved: peace in each other’s presence.

Beneath the weight of their pasts, they navigate a delicate dance of pain and trust, where vulnerability is a risk neither is sure they can take… yet can’t resist.

Chapter 1: The Weight of Unspoken Longing

 

The wind had shifted, not sharp, not cruel, just cold in that low, familiar New York way. The kind of chill that crawled in under your sleeves, found your bones, and made you wish you’d grabbed that second layer on your way out the door.

It wasn’t raining. But the fog was heavy, coiled low over the Hudson like breath caught in a throat. Across the skyline, buildings softened into shadow. The world had lost its edges.

From the balcony of the Watchtower, Manhattan looked half-finished, muted outlines of jagged rooftops and distant, blinking towers. Sirens floated up now and then, muted by the thickness in the air. Traffic still moved below in fits and starts, cabs blurring past in gold streaks, pedestrians hunched into themselves, steam coiling from subway grates like the city was exhaling in sleep.

Everything felt slower in weather like this. Quieter, more subdued. Even the city.

The Watchtower compound was still. Lights on, but low. Not dimmed on purpose, just lived-in, settled, like a house that knew when to quiet itself. There was no shouting. No clatter of boots down steel walkways. No rapid-fire comms crackling through the overhead system. The usual noise, the hum of vigilance. The constant motion of a place that never truly slept had thinned to a hush.

Even the air inside felt changed. Heavier, like the fog outside had slipped in through the seams and laid itself over everything. A slow, invisible weight pressing everyone inward. Conversations were shorter. Movements tighter. Like the whole building was holding its breath without meaning to.

Somewhere a light flickered in the hall. Footsteps passed and didn’t echo. A door hissed shut in the distance, softer than it should have been. It wasn’t discomfort, but the kind of quiet that made people aware of themselves. A natural silence that didn’t ask to be broken.

Out here, no one else had braved the balcony.

Just Ava

She leaned against the railing, forearms braced against the cold metal, sleeves tugged down to her wrists, thumbs slipped through the fitted holes like muscle memory. The fabric hugged close, not chosen for warmth, but for movement, for control. The chill in the metal pressed into her skin, but she didn’t flinch. Her body stayed still, disciplined, like it had learned not to respond to discomfort. Her breath left her in slow exhales, soft and fleeting, dissolving into the thick air around her. It didn’t drift. It disappeared, vanishing into the fog as if it belonged there more than she did.

The hoodie she wore was a muted lavender-gray, zipped partway up, the collar slightly crinkled from being tugged or adjusted earlier. It hung comfortably on her frame, functional more than fashionable, though somehow it still made her look composed in a way she never tried to be.

Her hair, darker at the roots and bleeding into soft, ashy ombré at the ends, hung loose in damp waves, like it had half-dried on its own. Not by design, but by neglect. A few strands clung to the hollows of her collarbone and jaw, kissed there by the chill and left to curl naturally. It framed her like weather frames a landscape, honest, unstyled, lived-in. There was a kind of gravity to her presence. Like she wasn’t just standing in the moment, but bracing against it.

Her face held more weight than her posture ever gave away. Striking in its calm, but not blank. The wariness that usually shaped her expression was softened by something quieter beneath it. Something that made one wonder who she was when no one was watching. Her eyes, storm-cloud grey and constantly in motion, scanned the world like a half-locked door. Clear, aware, but guarded. And beneath that, her mouth, unpainted and unsmiling, held the shape of a memory she hadn’t decided to keep or release. Not quite peace or of pain, but something real, caught in the space between.

There was something about her that didn’t beg to be noticed, but always was. Like static electricity before a storm. Quiet, present, and waiting.

She watched the city as if she were waiting for it to disappear, as though the noise and light were just illusions ready to unravel. Her gaze held a quiet impatience, a distant longing for the world to fade away into something softer, quieter, something she could finally touch without hesitation. The buildings blurred at the edges, swallowed slowly by the thickening fog, and in that hazy silence, she seemed both present and elsewhere, caught between what was and what she wished might be. It was as if she sought refuge not just from the city's chaos, but from the weight of everything she carried beneath the surface.

Then something changed. Not a sound, exactly, but a break in silence. A disturbance in the quietude she had been wrapped in.

There was only one person who moved in such a way. Silent and slow, without hesitation, like his body had been trained to enter a room the way a shadow slips through a crack in the door.

Ava felt him before she saw him. The shift in the air, delicate but certain, like gravity tilting slightly in his direction. The presence of someone who didn’t need to speak to announce himself. Then came the outline, broad shoulders, deliberate steps, the quiet discipline in the way he moved. There was no urgency or hesitation. Only that grounded tranquil that somehow said more than words ever could.

Bucky stood in his civilian clothes, or what passed for them. A charcoal-gray thermal hugged his frame beneath a half-zipped jacket, worn black with that soft, matte finish that only came from years of wear and not enough care. Jeans, dark, slim, tactical without meaning to be. The kind of fit that moved when he did but didn’t draw attention. Both hands were gloved. Plain black. Utilitarian. There was no shine, no symbol. Just cover, like everything else he didn’t talk about.

His stubble was a little heavier than usual. Not unkempt, but lived-in like the rest of him. His metal hand stayed buried in his jacket pocket. The other lifted just briefly, leather creaking faintly as his fingers curled and uncurled once before dropping again. Always scanning. Always balancing.

There was a pull in the space around her, faint but distinct, like the air shifted to make room. She didn’t need to turn to see him. The weight of him was already there, steady and grounding, settling into the moment like he'd always been part of it. And then his shape, solid, familiar, outlined in the silver haze, took form at the edge of her awareness. It wasn’t imposing, but more of the kind of presence that didn’t ask permission to be felt.

He was quiet. Not out of awkwardness, but because quiet was his native tongue. He stood at the far end of the balcony, posture relaxed but alert, hands at his sides, boots planted like he meant to stay. His eyes weren’t on the skyline. They were on her. Shoulders settled, head slightly tilted, like he wasn’t just looking at her but reading her. Like a file someone never stopped keeping open.

Ava adjusted her stance with a barely perceptible sway, like her balance had faltered for just a second, but hadn’t. In that quiet breath of movement, the edges of her form softened, blending almost seamlessly with the pale afternoon haze, as if she were slipping just slightly out of sync with the world around her. It was fleeting, delicate, like a ripple in still water. The kind of change easily lost to the fog or mistaken for a trick of the eye. But Bucky saw it. His gaze held, stable and silent, catching the distortion even if he chose not to name it. Her fingers flexed once at her side, a quiet tether to the moment, a signal that she had felt it too, but had no intention of explaining it.

Her chest rose and fell evenly. Her eyes remained fixed. There was no tremor in her shoulders, no catch in her breath. If anything, she looked colder, more distant, more controlled, like someone who had learned to vanish without leaving a trace.

The city fell further into fog. The wind drew long through the steel beams overhead, tugging at the loose ends of Ava’s hair, the hem of Bucky’s coat.

“You always come out here in the cold?” he asked, voice low and roughened by cold and the weight of a day spent without words.

Her focus stayed fixed on the river’s dark surface, but it was more than just the water she was seeing. Her eyes, deep, sharp, and quietly magnetic, caught the faintest shimmer of the city’s distant lights, reflecting something more private beneath the surface. They held a kind of calm, but not emptiness. If anything, they were alive with the things she never said aloud, pulling him in without effort.

She looked to him, her eyes measured and quiet, the cool gray of her eyes catching the light in a way that made them feel deeper than they were a moment ago. There was something unspoken in them, not a question, not a warning, but an opening. A silent invitation woven into the calm, like the still surface of water hinting at a current beneath. Then, just as gently, she turned back to the river, her expression smoothing into distance again. Not closing off, but waiting to see if he’d follow.

“I like when the city disappears,” she answered, voice soft but calm. “Feels like it’s mine for a while. Like it forgets to be noisy.”

He nodded, barely.  “Does the quiet help?” He asked, barely more than gravel and breath.

She huffed a faint breath, almost a laugh, almost not. “No one ever asks that.”

He gave a quick lift of his shoulders, loose and effortless, “Thought I’d try something different.”

She didn’t look back, but he saw her jaw move. “Sometimes.” Her fingers traced an absent pattern on the railing, a brief, hesitant gesture that held a fragile grace, like she was reaching out but pulling back at once. “It’s a break from the noise.” She pulled herself away from the railing, folding her arms loosely as she stepped back to face him across the small space between them. Her posture was composed but carried a subtle awkwardness, as if guarding something unspoken beneath the calm surface. “But the silence… it can be just as loud.”

Bucky nodded like he understood, because he did. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, more like a weight that settled deep and lingered long after the noise had faded. Usually, it was the kind that outlasted quiet itself.

He took a step forward, then another, closing the space between them with a calm ease that didn’t demand attention, but carried quiet intention.

“Any nightmares?” he asked, out of genuine curiosity, carrying no judgment. It came from the firm heaviness of someone who’d been there.

She gave a small shake of her head. “Worse,” she answered, the words thin and frayed. “It’s the stillness. Like everything’s holding its breath, waiting for something that never comes.”

He didn’t press. He was well familiar with the quiet that didn't soothe. It only reminded you of what wasn’t there.

“I got used to the chamber,” she added after a pause, her tone more measured now, but distant. “The buzz. The current. The way the walls hummed like they were breathing with you. Hurt like hell, but… at least it meant you existed. You were accounted for.”

His eyes stayed on her, steady.

“It’s messed up,” Ava said quietly, fingers dragging over the inside of her wrist, slow and absent. “The things you end up missing. Even the pain. At least it meant something was happening.”

He nodded, not because he pitied her, but because he understood the kind of loneliness that came with silence, especially after too long in a place where sound meant survival. Where sensation, even agony, meant you were still real.

“You start to wonder if quiet means you’ve disappeared,” she finished, her eyes skimming back to the river, unreadable but not closed.

Her lashes lowered. Not warily, but like a quiet turn inward, like she’d suddenly grown more aware of her own body. Of the way her arms crossed loosely over her ribs, the bare notable rise and fall of her breath, and the pulse at her throat.

His gaze softened a touch, firm and impassive, carrying that familiar quiet weight. His jaw relaxed slightly, not letting anything slip, but there was a steadiness in him, a grounding in the moment that said he noticed, even if he said nothing.

“There’s a kind of comfort in the stillness,” he said quietly, his voice calm but carrying the weight of experience. “At least it tells you you’re still here.”

Ava tilted her head, slow and deliberate, like the motion belonged to someone remembering how to move through a moment instead of brace against it. Her face turned fully toward him now, catching the softened light that filtered through the fog-drenched air. The dull glow from the compound touched her skin in a way that felt accidental, highlighting the clean, sharp lines of her jaw and the subtle pull of restraint around her mouth.

Her beauty wasn’t loud, but it was arresting, sharp in some places, soft in others. The fine angles of her jaw gave her a sculpted severity, but it was balanced by the mouth that almost never relaxed, the eyes that held more than they ever gave away. There was a tension just beneath her expression, the kind that made you want to look twice to figure out what she wasn’t saying. It wasn’t seduction. It was gravity.

Her hair, still damp at the ends, framed her features in loose, effortless waves. The ombré shift from dark roots to pale ash caught only a trace of reflection, less a shine, more a muted response to the weather, like fog trailing over stone. A few strands clung lightly to her temple and the slope of her neck, left there by the chill. It didn’t feel styled or softened for effect. It was natural

And in that moment, when her eyes landed on Bucky, clear and direct, with the smallest trace of something unspoken behind it, it was almost disarming. For a second, she wasn’t holding herself together by force. This version of her, the one bathed in fog-filtered light and standing still in her own skin, was the closest she ever got to ease.

Her expression wasn’t open, but it wasn’t guarded either. Her focus met his and held. Unwavering…searching. Like she was sifting through static for a signal she wasn’t sure she’d recognize.

"I used to think being still meant I was fading." Her voice was even, measured. "Like I wasn't really there anymore." Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric at her side. A quiet brace against something unspoken. "Now... maybe it's just what’s left when it stops hurting. I wouldn’t know."

That was the kind of sentence that didn’t invite a reply. It hung there though, full and unmovable. He didn’t try to answer. He breathed with her through it.

Then, quietly, without thought, maybe even without permission, he slipped off the glove from his vibranium hand. The movement was slow, intentional, like it meant more than just removing a barrier. The cool sheen of metal caught the light as he lowered his arm, and after a brief pause, he extended it toward her. Just the metal one. The one that always came with a beat of hesitation. The one that rarely reached first.

The motion was leisure, as if the arm itself had to consider the choice before obeying. The faint brush of metal over metal whispered in the space between them, no louder than a breath. It wasn’t the gesture of a soldier, or even a teammate. It was something smaller, more human. The vibranium caught the light through the fog, dull and softened, like it had been waiting to be seen without purpose.

Ava caught the motion before it fully reached her. Not just with her eyes, but in the invisible way she registered tremors in air and intent. Her body reacted instinctively, the lines of her shoulders tensing as the space around her shimmered faintly. Her form thinned at the edges, her molecules slipping just barely out of sync, as if her skin didn’t quite know whether to stay or vanish.

But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she steadied. Breath low, eyes calm. She held her ground.

And that was when he let the edge of his knuckles brush against the back of her hand. Not pressing. Not assuming. It was an offering of sorts.

Her lips parted, not in surprise, but in some small, involuntary changes of breath. Her eyes dropped to where his hand lingered, cool and easy against hers. She didn’t retreat nor brace. Instead, she turned her hand over.

There was no rush in it, no drama. Pure contact. Skin against vibranium. Warmth meeting cool metal. Fingers brushed, tentative at first, as if each of them was still deciding whether to let the moment become real. Hers were smaller, narrower, but sure. Calloused in places that told stories, quiet evidence of a life spent in motion, in survival. His hand was larger, solid, unmoving in its patience and not grasping.

She didn’t intertwine their fingers. Not yet. But her hand didn’t hover or hesitate. She let it rest in his. Weight and all. Like a question answered without needing words.

The air felt denser, slower, charged with the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be broken. The world beyond the balcony softened even further, as if the fog itself respected the pause.

Ava kept her eyes lowered, still focused on where their hands met. Not avoiding his eyes, but choosing this moment instead. Letting herself feel it fully. Letting herself remain present. She didn’t brace for the impact. She didn’t disappear. That alone felt like something fragile and brave.

And Bucky didn’t speak. His breathing stayed controlled, but something in his stance loosened. Just slightly. Like a tension in his spine had eased, even if only for now. He looked at her, not searching for a response, not trying to define what this was, but being in this moment. Feeling her trust in the weight of her stillness.

For once, the silence between them didn’t feel like avoidance. It felt like understanding.

Bucky swallowed, quiet, reflexive. His throat worked once, and his brows pulled slightly together. He wasn’t sure the last time he’d touched someone like this, without defense, without obligation. Not as a soldier or as an assignment. As a man.

Ava’s thumb slid sideways, barely grazing his knuckle. A quiet affirmation.

She stared straight ahead, laxed, breathing even. But her eyes caught the gray light like they hadn’t before, anchored, unblinking. And for the first time, she looked less like she was halfway gone.

“They always think touch is for comfort,” she said, after a long silence.

Bucky looked at her, but her focus stayed below where her fingers continued to feel the weight of his hand in hers, light, but intentional. Her index finger moved barely, tracing the ridge of a knuckle like she was memorizing the shape.

“What’s it for, then?” he asked, watching her more than waiting for an answer.

She drew in a breath that sounded like it hurt a little. “Proof,” she whispered. Her eyes flicked up to his, swift, but sure. There was no hesitation in the glance, only something quiet and certain, like comfort that didn’t need to explain itself. She held his look just long enough to let the weight of her words settle. Then she looked back down to their hands, where her fingers still lightly traced his, as if grounding herself in the contact.

“That we’re real,” she continued, softer now. “That we’re not slipping out of the world when no one’s watching.”

He nodded once, eyes still on her. The tremor behind her voice. The way she still hadn’t let go.

“I don’t need saving,” she added, quieter, but sharper, like a final line drawn in the sand.

His reply was immediate, but easy. “Good,” he replied. “I wouldn’t know how.”

Her eyes met his again. And that was the moment.

It wasn’t the touch or the words.
It was the look.

The look that held and lingered, weighty in its silence. That meeting of eyes across the breath between them, unchoreographed, unguarded, like they’d both stepped into something neither could fully name, but recognized just the same.

There was a storm behind both their gazes, vast and quiet and years deep. Grief lived there. And memory. And all the sharp-edged ache that came from surviving things no one ever should. But woven through it, threaded so thin it almost went unnoticed, was something else.

Longing.

Not desperation, not need that begged to be filled, but the quieter kind. The ache for understanding. For being seen and not flinched away from.

Their eyes didn’t shy. There were no mask or safe distance. What remained was the charged stillness where everything unspoken rang louder than anything said aloud.

Bucky’s stare was heavy with history. Not just what he’d done, but what he carried, every choice, every silence, every mile of hard-won restraint. He wasn’t looking at her like she needed fixing. He was looking at her like he knew exactly what it was to be broken and still standing.

And Ava… her eyes didn’t plead. They burned. Sharp, but not defensive. Fragile, but not weak. She held his stare like someone bracing against gravity, refusing to let herself fold.

The world stayed fogged and still around them, but between those two locked gazes, something pressed closer. Much denser.

Then slowly, deliberately, she laced her fingers through his.

It wasn’t instinctive.
It wasn’t casual.
It was chosen.

Her hand moved with a kind of reverence, as if the act itself held meaning too sacred to rush. Her fingers slipped between his, each one settling with gentle pressure, light at first, then firmer, like testing the strength of a bridge before stepping onto it. Her thumb grazed the side of his in a barely-there touch, not searching for warmth but for grounding. Something real. Something that stayed.

Bucky didn’t move or tighten his grip. He let her be. He allowed Ava to take the lead and claim the space between them in her own time. The vibranium beneath her skin wasn’t cold anymore. It felt solid and present.

The shape of their hands changed. It became something shared.

He looked down, just once, as if to imprint it. The contrast of her skin against his metal hand, the soft give of her knuckles against his own. To remember what it felt like to be trusted this way. Her thumb brushed over the side of his, slow and steady, like she was learning the edges of him with her skin alone. She didn’t squeeze. Her touch wasn’t for reassurance. It was for presence.

She didn’t speak, neither did he. Everything was there in the way her fingers wrapped into his. It wasn’t possessive. Her breathing didn’t hitch, but it deepened. Not with anxiety. With something heavier and much quieter. Like the act of holding his hand made her more visible to herself.

Everything unspoken settled between their palms, in the space where their hands met and stayed. He let his shoulder ease closer to hers, just slightly. A shift. A tether.

And for once, he let himself hold back.
Not his past. Not his damage. Not his breath.
Just her hand.

It was simple.
And it was enough.

The weight of it settled between them like a new gravity, and they let the stillness take them. For once, it didn’t roar.

Together, they turned back to the Hudson, eyes following the river as it stretched calmly into the distance. Fog moved in slow coils over the surface, not menacing but gentle, like breath exhaled from the earth itself. Above, the clouds drifted like a pack at rest, not hunting, just existing, carried by a wind that asked nothing, only moved. The sky didn’t threaten. It watched. And for a moment, the world felt like it could hold them.

Downstairs, the world remained unchanged. But here, up high and forgotten, something had lifted, a tilt in the orbit of two people who’d spent most of their lives untethered.

Chapter 2: Stillness in the Space Between

The Watchtower had gone still for the night. Most of the lights were off, the hallways hushed except for the low ambient hum of the structure itself, a sound like deep breath held in the metal bones of the penthouse floor.

Beyond the glass walls of the penthouse, New York glowed in the distance. The skyline was a serrated silhouette, pinned against a navy sky veined with the last traces of cloud. Downtown lights pulsed gently through low mist, and traffic moved along the avenues in quiet ribbons of gold and red. Helicopter lights blinked far above the East River, and somewhere below, the city murmured through a haze of winter air and electric hum. The Watchtower sat apart from it all, high enough to be untouched, but not out of reach.

Bucky zipped the last of his duffel shut and slung it over his shoulder in one practiced motion. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t loiter. It was all in one quick motion. His boots, black leather, worn in at the edges, thudded softly over the polished floor as he crossed to the elevator.

He wore a black leather jacket over a brown henley and jeans, everything fitted but not sharp, comfort layered over utility, the kind of outfit that didn’t draw attention but could disappear into a crowd if needed. The jacket bore the creases of long use, particularly at the shoulders and elbows, shaped by years of motion rather than design. A clean pair of matte-black gloves covered his hands this time, full-fingered and soft-grain leather, no exposed seams. No unfinished edges. His right hand flexed once at his side as he walked, then settled again.

His hair was trimmed short now, closer to how he'd worn it after Wakanda, neat at the sides with a slight tousle on top. It made his jaw look sharper, his expression harder to read in low light. A faint shadow of stubble lined his cheek and chin, the kind of detail that suggested he’d meant to shave but hadn’t. Like everything else about him, it spoke more to exhaustion than style.

Bucky pressed the call button for the elevator with a quiet exhale, the pad of his glove brushing against the panel. The doors hadn’t opened yet. The floor beneath him felt still, suspended, like time had stalled just long enough for something unfinished to settle in the air.

“Didn’t take you for the quiet exit type.”

The voice came from behind him, quiet and dry, like sand sliding over stone, with a thread of something restrained woven beneath it. Steady and low. The kind of voice shaped by someone used to holding herself back, even when she wanted to be heard.

He turned. Ava stood in the corridor, arms crossed loosely, posture not exactly closed but not open either. She wasn’t dressed to be out, just in a loose black hoodie and fitted gray yoga pants, the fabric clean and unwrinkled, not faded. The way she stood under the dim blue glow of the overhead lights made her seem carved from something sharp and shadowed. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, but a few strands had escaped, half-curled at her temple. Black ankle socks softened the sound of her steps against the floor. Vulnerability tucked in the quietest places.

Bucky took a slow step toward her, his expression even. “Didn’t know you were still up.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, and offered a half-laugh under her breath that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Then I was.”

He nodded once. Then silence again. The kind that neither of them minded, except this one felt heavier than the kind they’d shared earlier on the balcony. This one was threaded with the weight of something unspoken.

“I just...” she started, then looked past him, as if whatever she meant to say might come easier if she didn’t meet his eyes. Her jaw tightened for half a second before she exhaled, light but audible. “I wanted to say thanks. For earlier.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she said quickly, then paused. “But I needed to.”

He watched her carefully. Not guarded, but fully present. The way someone listens when they’ve learned to hear what isn’t spoken aloud. His eyes didn’t press or wander. It held steady, quiet, like he was making space for her to stay where she was instead of retreating. Listening with everything he had left.

She uncrossed her arms, then folded them again, restless in her own skin, like she hadn’t figured out where to put them or what to do with the rest of herself. Her eyes skimmed past him, then down, as if saying it while looking at him might make it too real.

“I’m not good at... people. Or talking. Or whatever the hell this kind of thing needs.”

His brow lifted slightly. “What kind of thing?”

Ava blinked slowly, her pale green eyes catching the hazed light as they lifted to meet his. For a moment, the quiet intensity of her stare held his, the sharpness of her irises contrasting against the softness in his dark ones.

Her voice dropped low but carried a new certainty, stripped of pretense. “Connection.”

Bucky’s look didn’t waver. The muscles around his mouth clenched just enough to show restraint, a quiet acknowledgment settling in his eyes. Without a word, the faintest nod passed between them, an unspoken agreement heavier than any sentence.

“I don’t want you thinking it meant anything,” she continued, and her voice cracked just slightly at the edge, not with emotion, but tension. Like she’d pulled something tight inside herself to say it. “Not like that.”

He nodded. It was respectful. No trace of insult or hurt crossed his face. “I get it.”

And he did.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it buzzed, like something unfinished had been placed gently on the floor between them. She glanced down, then away. Her breath caught, short and almost imperceptible.

“But…” she started again, quieter. Her eyes searched his for a hint of understanding before she took a hesitant step forward, then stopped herself. “The thing is… I don’t always know what it means. What I feel. What I’m supposed to do with it.”

Bucky’s expression softened. He remained still, but the tension in his shoulders eased, grounding him more firmly in the moment. He settled more deeply into his stance, less focused on leaving and more on staying present. His hands relaxed at his sides, fingers loosening as if releasing a quiet restraint. There was something in the way he held himself now, less guarded, more open, though the stillness between them remained charged.

“You don’t have to know,” he replied. “Sometimes being honest about that… is enough.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, sharp and searching, like twin flames flickering in the dim light, fierce and fragile all at once. She took another slow step forward, then paused, breathing steady but shallow, as if measuring the space between them. Then another step followed, careful and unhurried, closing the distance until barely a foot separated them.

Her gaze never wondered. It held his with a quiet intensity that spoke louder than words, pulling at something inside him neither wanted to name aloud. Her lips parted slightly, a breath caught on the edge, suspended in the charged silence.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, her voice low, edged with something raw. It wasn’t a confession so much as a surrender, quiet, careful, the kind of truth she rarely let out where someone else could hear it. “But I didn’t want you to leave thinking that was… nothing.”

His eyes dropped to her lips, pursed together softly, held there for a breath, then slid to her hand, still clenched loosely at her side like she was holding something back or holding herself together.

For the briefest second, her form flickered. A faint ripple of distortion shimmered across her arm, ghosting through her shoulder and down to her fingertips. The glitch passed almost as quickly as it came, barely more than a blink in the quiet. But she didn’t react.

If it hurt, she didn’t show it. Her posture didn’t waver, and her eyes never left his. And when he looked back into her own, his expression had shifted. Not softened, exactly, but steadied. Something in her refusal to break, even in pain, settled in him like gravity.

“I didn’t,” he said. Simple and firm, like he meant it enough that no more words were needed.

The air between them shifted. Not loud or sudden, but heavy with weight. Something unspoken had surfaced, not crashing upward but rising slow, inevitable, settling between them like a held breath.

It wasn’t dramatic. But the way they stood, eyes locked, breath shallow, hands close but not quite touching, made the moment feel dense. Like the room itself was holding still, waiting.

Ava’s breath caught, barely audible. Her eyes lifted and met his. They held there, unblinking and steady. She studied him as if memorizing the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his mouth, the quiet restraint in his eyes. For a moment, something like a smile tried to form at the corner of her lips. It ghosted there, tentative and brief, before fading.

She could feel the heat radiating from him in the silence, like his presence filled the gap between them more fully than words ever could. Her fingers flexed at her side, a reflex she didn’t bother to hide. Every part of her was aware of the distance and what closing it would mean.

Bucky didn’t move, neither did a word escape from his mouth. His attention stayed on her, completely still, like he understood the fragility of the space she was crossing and refused to rush her through it.

The space between them pulsed, not with urgency, but with weight. With choice.

Her eyes drifted to his hand. The vibranium one, gloved in dark leather. Her fingers followed the shape of it in the air, barely raised, as if pulled toward the weight of it without knowing why. She didn’t touch him. Not yet. Her hand hovered close enough to feel the memory of contact before it even happened.

Her breath caught in her throat, shallow and soft. The silence swelled between them, thick with everything they hadn’t said.

“I don’t…” she whispered, then stopped herself. Her voice trailed off into the space between them, friable and unfinished.

He didn’t lean in. He didn’t prompt. He stayed exactly where he was, still and quiet, his breath shallow.

But the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It pressed around them, profuse and quiet, the kind of silence that hummed beneath the skin. Something lived in it.

Ava’s eyes searched his, unsure and steady all at once. Then dropped again to his gloved vibranium hand. Slowly, like testing the air for heat, she reached for it. Her fingertips brushed the tips of his fingers, then settled there, light and trembling. His fingers twitched once, then curled gently, welcoming hers without formation. Not a grip or an answer. Just a second of contact.

She took one more breath. Then leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t deep. It wasn’t planned or smooth or anything that belonged in a memory meant to last. But it happened. Soft and tentative. Their eyes closed as their lips met, uncertain and quiet. His mouth didn’t press or linger, just met hers, unguarded for the briefest moment.

Two seconds. Maybe less.

When they parted, neither of them stepped back. The space between them remained small, held in place by something unspoken. Ava looked up at him, her eyes no longer guarded but calm, solemn in a way that felt almost like peace. A rare stillness settled over her features, not relief, not confusion. Something quieter. Content. Like something in her had finally exhaled.

In Ava’s chest, it landed like something impossible. Like finding light in a place she thought had nothing left.

Bucky didn’t speak. His expression held steady, unreadable as ever, but his throat shifted as he swallowed. Something inside him had moved, subtle and deep.

It was a moment outside of time. A breath pulled from somewhere too far back to name.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” she whispered.

He exhaled slowly, the kind that didn’t release tension so much as make room for it. His eyes drifted to the side, fixed on nothing, like he was trying to ground himself in something outside the moment. Then he looked back at her.

“But it did.”

His voice had been low, even. Not defensive energy or a regretful tone. But there was honesty. Like he wasn’t ready to name what it meant either, but wasn’t pretending it hadn’t mattered.

The elevator chimed softly behind him. The doors opened with a mechanical sigh, waited for several seconds, then eased shut again, unnoticed.

They remained as they were. Quiet and motionless.

Ava’s fingers were still gently curled into his gloved metal hand, the last trace of that fragile contact. She hadn’t realized she was holding on. Not really. And when she did, her hand loosened, slowly and consciously, until her touch slipped away.

He didn’t stop her. His hand stayed where it was, steady, fingers slightly open, as if still remembering the shape of hers.

Their eyes stayed locked. Neither of them said a word.

In the hush, there was no tension. No clear relief. Only something that lived in the in-between, heavier than comfort, softer than regret. The kind of silence that follows after meaning, but before understanding.

Bucky didn’t look away. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was fixed, watching her with a steadiness that said more than he ever would out loud.

And Ava… she didn’t retreat. She simply stood there like someone quietly overwhelmed by something they weren’t ready to name.

They didn’t know what came next.

But neither turned from what had just passed between them.

Not yet.