A/N: This was a request made by the lovely Marvel_Fanatic_! Sorry it's taken almost a month, but it's finally here! I really, really hope you like it :) I loved the request and loved writing it!

Winnie

P.S. In case anyone was wondering where I got the inspiration for this... I found it on this week's finale of the Bachelor... that break-up was harsh, but stupid Arie had some GREAT quotes. I wrote them on my phone to draw inspiration from later lol. So thanks, Arie. At least you were good for something in the end besides BREAKING HEARTS.

Words: 6.2K

It all began with a kiss.

It'd been ten months ago when you first met Steve. He'd been a regular at your restaurant downtown. Your business was thriving, your friends were great, and your success was ten times above everyone else your age. All you were missing was someone to share it with. You thought you'd found it when you shared that first kiss with Steve. It'd been a steakhouse, ice-cream, movie theater date on your favorite side of town. His fingers had been soft and almost unsure as they brushed the hair away from your face. You'd found his nervousness endearing as his lips whisperingly pressed to yours. The adrenaline in your veins made your heart pound and the butterflies in your tummy run wild.

That kiss screwed you over. That kiss was beautiful: it was rain splattering the tops of your heads and cascading down his muscular body so perfectly you thought for a moment he was a figment of your imagination. His heavy coat, that he'd so graciously loaned you, was draped over your shoulders as he shivered from the cold. And when he'd pulled away the blue hue of his eyes had swallowed you up whole.

That kiss sent you spiraling down, down, down the Steve rabbit-hole.

It only took a few weeks for you to start meeting his friends. First it was Sam—the most stable of them all—then his superhero ally Natasha. Then there was Bucky Barnes. Bucky took the longest because Steve, although very trusting of the healing process the Princess Shuri had put him through, was nervous to bring his new girl around the formerly stable man. Bucky made it very easy very fast for you to trust him, though. It was awkward at first—especially the first time you two were left alone in the room together. You twiddled your thumbs while Bucky stared at the soccer game on TV. He didn't know what to say. Neither did you. But eventually your awkward charm bubbled out in the form of, "Can I see your new arm?"

Bucky had blinked—rather thrown off by your sudden request—but only chuckled as you blushed. He'd nodded and pulled up his sleeve so that you could admire the new tech carefully.

It was that moment that brought about a very good, very reliable friendship. Of course you never really interacted outside of hanging out with Steve, just because you felt odd without him there as a buffer between the two of you, because as much as you hated to admit it: Bucky Barnes was charming. He wasn't doing it on purpose, but he was charming the hell out of you. So for the eight months you've known him you've made it a point to keep yourself from giggling too hard at his jokes or looking too long at his rippling chest muscles: all out respect for your darling boyfriend Steve.

If only Steve held the same respect towards you.

When you met Sharon Carter you thought she was nothing more to Steve than say, Nat or Wanda. Boy oh boy were you wrong. There was something there between them that you could never see. You never saw it: maybe because you were hopelessly in love with Steve. Maybe you didn't want to see it. Or maybe, just maybe, you saw it and denied it for so long you'd convinced yourself your fears weren't real.

But the truth of the matter was this: Steve had feelings for Sharon Carter.

The illusion of a real, everlasting relationship was kept up for months.

It all ended with a kiss.

You're leaving your restaurant at a quarter past three. The dish-boys were running behind tonight after the Friday rush and you felt bad keeping the college students out so late on a night they'd like to properly enjoy. So you let them go home early in exchange to take over the obnoxious, greasy chore. You smell like French onion soup and baked potato bits. Your head pounds from the sound of a whirring dish-machine and the gritty feeling of soap still lingers on your hands. You consider going home to your own apartment before quickly changing your mind. Steve's home from a mission and you've yet to see him all week. You know he won't be asleep—he never sleeps after a mission. Not this soon, anyway.

So you decide to visit his place instead. He lives in the suburbs on the weekends that he time-shares with some of the other members of the Avengers team. It's a quaint little place that you keep a toothbrush at on his bathroom counter. You'll surprise him, spend the night, and finally get a little break away since tomorrow is your first official day off in four weeks.

It's not a shock to see a strange car in the driveway when you arrive at 349 Emerald Avenue. It's not uncommon for Steve and the others to take rentals. So instead of parking behind the BMW and block it in, you park across the street—unseen from the house's big bay windows.

Bag over your shoulder and tension riddled through your muscles you start the walk up the house driveway. It's halfway to the porch that you can properly see into the illuminated windows. A sheer curtain had them blocked from the street. But now, as you come nearer, you can make out figures on the other side.

At first you're confused as to why there's a tall woman standing opposite of Steve in the dining room. Then you recognize her posture and hair length to be the Sharon Carter who works for Shield and your confusion dissipates. It's a work thing, you acknowledge with a little head bob.

A work thing that requires them to lean very, very close together...

You stop walking in the middle of the lawn. Your feet slowly begin to sink into the mud just as the realization of the moment sinks in on your heavy-hearted chest.

They're going to kiss.

And that's how it all ends. Steve kisses Sharon. They kiss—right there in the dining room in front of the big bay window—and he cups her face with both hands. He's not half-in, half-out as he ravishes her with his lips. She's pressed against him with her hands travelling up into his hair. Neither of them stops nor slows as the kiss goes on and on and on...

Meanwhile, while their moment gets steamier, your innards have dissolved into puddles. Firstly you're hit with a wave of chest-heaving heartache. Then, when you watch Steve's hand travel down past the small of Sharon's back, the agony is momentarily replaced with white-hot rage.

Without any sensible thought you chuck your backpack past the bushes. It soars over the daisies until whacking against the big bay window—causing Sharon to squeak in shock. Their heads whip up to gawk helplessly at the yard. There you stand, hands clenched at your sides and murder throbbing behind your eyes, as the window glass still rattles with the impact.

Steve's face is blurred by the sheer curtain. It doesn't quite matter what his expression is now, though. You've seen enough to know that you don't want to see any more. Your hands shake with fear, rage, and confusion as you turn and march back to you parked car.

The worst part? Steve doesn't even come out to run after you.

Looking back, you know it's because he never really loved you. He thought he did, but the truth of it was that he couldn't. He wanted to love you. He wanted to be over Peggy Carter. But he wasn't, he never will be.

And the closest thing he could find to Peggy Carter with a pulse was her niece.

The car ride home takes two hours longer than it should. You pull over to scream once. Then the next time—to cry. When you finally drag yourself into your apartment at sunrise you see that you have twelve missed messages on your home phone machine. You shut your cell phone off after the second ring.

"Y/N? Y/N, please... please just call me back. I want to explain."

Steve's voice echoes from the answering machine as you plop down as deadweight onto the couch. Your arms move to shield your eyes from the sunlight streaming through the blinds.

"Y/N, I can explain." He pauses with a heavy breath. "Okay. Maybe I can't. I—I can never explain. What I did is unexplainable and—and it was wrong. I'm sorry, so sorry. Please—call me."

You roll over to stuff your puffy face into the throw pillows. "Nope," you mutter to no one.

Another missed call beeps. "I wanted it to be you, Y/N. I tried so hard to feel the same things you do for me. I just—I couldn't do it. Something's really wrong with me..."

"You think?" you scoff. You get mad again and chuck one of your shoes at the wall. It leaves a dent. You don't care, oddly enough.

The answering machine beeps again to signal another call. You get up, grumbling in pure rage, and curse Steve's name. You march over to shut off the damn thing before you can hear his fucking voice again...

"Hey."

You pause—finger lingering over the "stop" button. It's not Steve's voice that fills your apartment. This time it's Bucky.

"It's, it's Bucky. In case you, uh, didn't recognize my voice or somethin'."

You almost laugh. Almost. The tears in your eyes and the hurt in your heart stop you, though.

"I uh, I heard what happened."

You settle into the nearest chair. You cradle your legs to your chest and listen to more of what Bucky softly, carefully says.

"You're probably wondering how I heard. Steve, he called me." There's a pause and perhaps a crackle in his voice—or perhaps it's bad reception. "He told me what he... what he did." That there in his voice was palpable—the difficulty Bucky had in spitting out the end of the sentence, as if he didn't want to finish it at all: as if he can't believe it, just like you. "I don't know where you are, if you're home or not, but I tried calling your cell. I'm gonna stop by your restaurant though and see if I can catch you there. I'll check your place, too. I just—I just want to make sure you're okay. I know you might not want to see anyone right now, and that's fine, but no one's heard from you all night. I just want to make sure you're alright."

Much too soon Bucky's deep, soothing voice is replaced with a mechanical beep. Then Steve's back: this'll be the seventh message on the machine. You grumble and try to will it with your mind to stop playing. Your limbs and soul are far too tired to make the journey from the armchair to the kitchen counter now.

A soft knock sounds at the door. Between ramblings of Steve's you catch Bucky's voice out in the hall. "It's Barnes."

"Come in."

The doorknob jiggles. Steve's message still plays.

"It's locked."

"Pick it," you sigh out loud. You close your eyes and stay seated. "I know you know how."

Before you can even finish that sentence Bucky has stepped into the apartment. The door creaks shut behind him as he drops the little key-tool back into his pocket again. His eyes, not the same shade of blue as Steve's thankfully, flicker to where you're curled up fetal-position on the lounger. Bucky seems to quietly take in the sight of your ruffled hair, tear stained cheeks, and greasy work clothes before allowing himself to blink slowly. Then he stalks to the kitchen as if he's been here a hundred times, even though this will be the first, and slams his metal fist down onto the answering machine. You suppose that he was just meaning to turn off Steve's rambling message. But Bucky underestimates his own strength and the power of his metal arm and shatters the plastic machine. It breaks apart into a thousand pieces.

"Oh shit." Bucky takes a hasty step back. "I'll replace that..." He turns his neck back to check what it is that's going on with your face now. To his surprise, you're smiling ever-so-lightly.

A small laugh warms your chest. "It's okay. I needed to get out of the 90s anyway." You stop laughing and attempt to brush some of your hair down flat. "Is there, uh, anything you need?"

Bucky gives you a soft, pitiful stare. "I was coming to check on you."

Your voice is quiet. "I know." You fiddle with your shirt sleeves and listen as Bucky's footsteps come nearer to your sad little chair. The silence is nearly unbearable as Bucky drops down onto a knee next to you. He waits patiently for you to say something that he can listen to. "I guess you've seen that I'm fine. So you can leave now... you can leave, if you want." You sound unsure and timid as you sit there in front of your boyfriend's (ex-boyfriend's?) best friend in the disastrous, heartbroken state that you've unexpectedly found yourself in this evening-turned-early morning.

"You're not fine," Bucky repeats adamantly but with sincerity in his tone. You flinch when you first feel his hand on your arm. He sees it and retracts before you can even comprehend why you'd flinched in the first place—he'd never touched you so sweetly before, or maybe even at all to your memory. It wasn't a bad feeling... it was just different. His palm was rougher than you've ever felt before and his fingers much stiffer and stronger than yours or Steve's.

"But no one expects you to be fine," Bucky says—breaking you out of your dazed thoughts. Your eyes flick away from the wall to his face. You notice now that he's shaved since the last time you saw him. His chestnut hair is still long and billowy but his jaw is soft and clean. You almost want to touch it.

"I'm not." You furiously squeeze your eyes shut before you can begin to cry again. The misery swirls with embarrassment, causing you to snap, "You should go check on Steve though. Your stupid best friend will probably want someone to bitch about me to."

Bucky scoffs humorlessly. "I don't want to see that asshole—not today." The harshness of his tone has you blinking your eyes open in surprise. Bucky senses your confusion and adds, "Not after what he's done to you."

Something about the sweetness of his words and the reciprocated sorrow in his denim blue eyes has the first of many more tears spilling jaggedly out of yours. Bucky swallows stiffly as you first sniffle and turn your head away. He can't bring himself to look away yet it seems to pain him to watch as you fall apart and try hugging yourself back together again. Your legs are bunched up at your chest where you fail at trying to hide your face in the bent of your legs.

"Come on," Bucky quietly tuts. He's come to stand in front of you with an open hand. "You should try to get some sleep."

"I—I don't want to," you stutter like an idiot. But you've let Bucky take your hand and guide you to your feet.

"Alright. Then you need to at least change out of your work clothes." He tries to paint a smile on his soft pink lips. "You smell like lobster."

"I do." You nod and chuckle—wiping your sticky cheeks with the back of your other hand.

Bucky walks you as far as the threshold of your bedroom before stopping. You turn to him, saying, "Will you stay for a few minutes?"

Bucky nods without considering the question. "Of course."

"It's just, I could use the company. I don't have many friends outside of Steve and..." you fade off as you suddenly feel the sadness punching you in the gut again.

"Hey," Bucky draws you out of your thoughts without touching you. He's moved his head down to peer at your face. "It's fine. You don't have to explain." He offers you a kind smile. "I'll turn on some TV out here and wait for you to come back."

That's exactly what he does, too. You shower and dress into clean clothes—hair braided and face washed of smudged makeup and dried tears. You cried a bit more on the shower stall floor, thinking back to the last time Steve had been here in the apartment with you, and realize that he'll never come around like that again.

You paddle into the living room on damp feet. Bucky's strung up on your couch with an arm stretching the back of the seat and an empty spot beside him. He's taken off his shoes and now watches the Discovery channel distractedly. It's the only thing playing at this ungodly hour of the morning—six AM. Of course there's the news, but no one likes to watch that when they're sad. Bucky seems to know that.

"You smell a lot better," Bucky comments lightly when you come around the corner.

You round the coffee table to take up the spot opposite of Bucky. "Thanks." Your voice is hoarse. You try to subtly cough and clear it with no luck.

"You missed the penguin segment," Bucky says randomly. It feels so odd and strange to hear this man—the scary metal-armed assassin with the rippling muscles—talking about penguins, but it's an obvious attempt to make you feel better. The gesture alone is enough to thaw your heart slightly. "Did you know they can swim up to twenty-two miles an hour?"

You snort. "No, I didn't."

"I just taught you something new then." Bucky smiles to himself cockily. His eyes quickly dart over to you—without being noticed—to check on you. The slight smile tugging on your tired lips has the tension in his chest loosening just slightly. He looks back to the TV in the same half-interested way that you do.

It takes until the next commercial break for someone to speak again.

"Did you know?"

Bucky looks to you wide-eyed. "Did I know about what Steve was doing? No. Of course I didn't."

You watch his face carefully and decide that you believe him. "So it hasn't been just once, then."

Bucky's glad you caught the way he worded things so that you'd know sooner rather than later that this wasn't a fluke of an affair. It was a systematic breaking of your heart that he couldn't believe he'd been too wrapped up in his own life to catch onto sooner.

"How long?"

Bucky shakes his head. "I don't know."

"What do you know?" you question impatiently.

Bucky glances towards the TV—looking as if he doesn't want to tell you.

"Tell me," you say aloud. "I need to know. And I don't trust Steve to tell me."

"All I know is that Steve called me after you saw him and Sharon. He didn't know what to do or how to fix things and he called me for help. He said it's been a month now: a month that he's been with her and you at the same time. She wanted him to leave you for her, but he didn't want to hurt you."

"So he goes behind my back and destroys me instead—how thoughtful," you sarcastically gripe.

Bucky opens his mouth—almost ready to tell you the rest of the story. How he'd fought with Steve for your sake and screamed at him for making the biggest mistake of his life. But then he thinks that you don't need to know that part. All you need right now is to move on, and telling you more useless facts won't help with that.

"I'm sorry," Bucky says. "You're absolutely amazing, Y/N. It's his fault he didn't see that."

You eye him. "You sound angry."

"I am. I'm furious." He shakes his head stiffly. "This isn't something the Steve I knew would do. This is some sort of crazy, messed-up reaction to everything he's been through. I know deep down inside Steve would never do anything to hurt someone: especially someone he loves."

"He doesn't love me," you reply. "That's the problem: Steve loves her, not me. He even said so in his messages."

Bucky swallows stiffly. For once, he's not sure what to say. "He's even stupider than I thought."

You clear your throat before you can start to cry. "Can—can we talk about penguins again?"

Bucky eagerly nods—happy to rid the room of the tension. "I don't have any more penguin facts, though." His thick eyebrows gnarl together and you watch his face as he desperately searches his brain for something to say. "I've got a couple of flamingo facts, though."

You startle him by laughing. Your hands reach to cover your face as you snort, and Bucky can't help but smile.

"Alright, Barnes. Give 'em to me." You settle down into your corner of the couch and wait for his stupid facts.

Bucky spends the whole rest of the day at your apartment with you. He only leaves when you agree to go to bed that night. But he's back the next morning bringing McDonald's for breakfast and a big steaming cup of your favorite hot Starbucks latte flavor. Then you go to work, expecting to feel sad all day, but manage to distract yourself with working hard the twelve hours you're there. It's only when someone asks about Steve do you realize you'll have to admit to the world that Captain America cheated on you with his dead-girlfriend's prissy niece.

Thankfully, three weeks go by without once seeing Steve. You've spotted his face on magazine covers a few times at the grocery store, but you always turn down another aisle instead of having to face standing in front of his picture. It still hurts—it's going to hurt for a while. You feel betrayed. You have every right to. You were lied to for so long. But there are a few things that soothe the pain: ice cream and housewives reality TV, watching the rain as you drive home from work, watching your restaurant thrive on a busy Saturday night, and seeing Bucky.

Yes, Bucky Barnes has been around more often than not since your breakup with Steve. Bucky stopped showing up without invite that day with the breakfast food, but you've initiated conversation over the phone enough to have asked him to go out for Chinese food on the three-week anniversary of catching Steve locking lips with Sharon.

You're leaving work, headed out to your car, when you hear your phone ring. It's Bucky.

"Hey you," you answer. You hope he can hear the smile in your voice.

"Hey," he responds. "Did you know that movie came out tonight?"

"What movie?" you ask. You're digging around your purse for your keys. The streetlight offers little help in locating them in the dark, cluttered bag.

"The comedy you've been wanting to see," Bucky reminds you. "The one that the preview came on for when we were watching CNN a few days back."

"The romantic one?" You prop your phone between your shoulder and your ear and keep looking for those damn keys...

One of your employees jogs by on her way to her own car. "Bye, Y/N!" she calls sweetly.

You wave to her and listen to Bucky at the same time. "Yeah—it's got that cowboy in it."

"Oh, that one! I didn't realize it was out this weekend. Why are we talking about it again?" you chuckle.

"I wanna know if you'd see it with me tonight. After we eat, of course."

You pause in your search of your keys. "Dinner and a movie?" Your heart flutters for the first time in weeks.

"Well, I mean..." Bucky sounds nervous, oddly enough. "Technically, yes."

"Are you asking me out on a date?" you jokingly ask.

"Yes. I am."

You freeze. "You... you are?"

Bucky chuckles. "Yeah." He pauses. "You don't have to say yes. You can say no. I know it's been a crazy last few weeks, but I just thought..."

You eagerly interrupt him. "Yes. I'll go on a date with you."

You can almost feel Bucky smiling through the line. "Really? Wow, okay, I didn't think that was going to work..."

Your giggling is interrupted by someone asking, "Who are you talking to?"

You startle—dropping your purse and its contents into the mud. The splash soaks your work pants and drips into your shoes.

You know who it is standing behind you. You know that voice. You know it better than you'd care to admit. You can vividly remember it softly speaking into your hear. Telling you he loved you. Teasing you about your messy bed-head hair. Ordering you drinks at the bar. Giggling during the quiet parts of movies. Leaving a thousand messages on your answering machine begging to give him the chance to apologize.

You swallow stiffly in an attempt to keep yourself calm. You don't want to turn around and see his face.

"Go away, Steve." You stoop down to pick up your belongings from the ground.

"Steve!?" Bucky mimics from the other line. You still have the phone pressed to your ear.

Steve, unaware that you're talking to his best friend on the line, steps closer to you. You can see his reflection now in the shiny paint job of your car. "You're seeing someone?"

"It's none of your business what I am or am not doing, asshole." You finally gather enough courage to whip your head in his direction. He's standing there above you while you shakily try to find your keys from the pile of purse-innards on the ground. "Leave me alone."

"It's been three weeks," Steve says.

You roll your eyes. In your ear, Bucky is asking, "What's going on? Is he there with you?"

"Yes." You reply to both men. Then you look up to your former boyfriend with hollow eyes. "I really don't want to see you, Steve. Not now—not ever. So just leave."

"I understand. I do—I just need to apologize." He has his hands stuffed in his pockets and a nervous look in his fluttery eyes. His pupils dart all around as if he's going to be caught doing something bad again. "I owe you that."

You scoff. "You owe me a lot more than that, Steve. But I'm over it."

Steve stoops down next to you. "I know that I hurt you..."

You interrupt what sounds like a rehearsed speech. "Go away." You realize that Bucky's line has gone quiet. Annoyed, you shove your phone back into your jacket pocket.

"I hate knowing that you hate me," Steve says in a desperate attempt to get you to listen. "It's killing me."

"And how do you think I felt, Steve? Knowing that I loved you so wholeheartedly only to have you running around with some stupid Carter girl?"

Steve's face flushes. "She's not stupid."

You almost laugh. "And now you're defending her! This is priceless, really." You give up on finding your keys now—assuming they must be inside. You stand up hurriedly. "This apology is so heartwarming."

Steve closes his eyes. He knows he's messing this up. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm doing this all wrong."

"You think?" You're starting on your journey back to the restaurant. Steve trails behind you like a lost dog.

"Can we please talk? Just for a minute."

"Go. Away." You keep yourself a few paces ahead of him.

Steve still follows. "Please. I can't have you hating me like this. It's killing me, Y/N. I still care about you so much."

Your response is to flip him off over your shoulder. You hear him let out a jagged breath. He reaches out—fingers brushing your shoulder—and you spin around to push him away with both palms. "Don't fucking touch me," you growl.

He holds both hands up in defeat. God, he reacts on your stomach like spoiled crawfish—giving you instant acid-reflex and nausea. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He waits until you've turned around to speak again. "Will you tell me if you're happy, at least?"

"I don't see what grants you the right to know about my happiness," you reply without missing a beat. "But yes—I am happy. Despite your efforts," you reply coolly.

"I wanted to make you happy." Steve finally uses his superior speed to dart ahead of you on your path back towards the restaurant. "I hope whoever it is that you were talking to can learn from my mistakes and treat you the way you deserve."

"The only person who needs to learn anything from your mistake, Steve, is you." You roll your eyes and physically push past him. "Now: go away."

Steve blocks you again before you can properly move all the way around him. You open your mouth to cuss him out before a pair of headlights causes both of your heads to turn. Coming into the deserted parking lot is a familiar red convertible. The startling action of a car coming speeding towards you has Steve reaching out for your hand—pulling you slightly behind him for protection. If he hadn't broken your heart, you'd find this adorable.

The red convertible slams to a stop just a few feet away. The glare of the headlights are nearly blinding, but the car is too distinct to not recognize—even through the bright haze.

"Bucky?" Steve's blond eyebrows are nestled closer in a clear sign of confusion.

Bucky doesn't bother properly parking his expensive car—not even caring to take the keys out of the ignition before jumping out of the driver's side.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Steve? Did you follow her?" Bucky sounds angrier than you've ever heard him to be. Steve seems to think the same thing as his blue eyes go wide—wordlessly gaping at his best friend. "Get your fucking hands off of her." Bucky's pointed eyes are glued onto where Steve's grabbed you.

As if remembering that he's holding your unwilling hand Steve quickly lets go. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's instinct."

Bucky stalks up to be the point of the triangle built out of the three of you in the parking lot. "You wanna talk to him, Y/N?" He gestures to Steve with his head. He doesn't sound annoyed or accusing. He's asking genuinely: as if you were to say yes he'd step back and let you continue the awkward conversation in peace. "It didn't sound like a very welcomed meeting from what I heard on the phone."

"The—the phone?" Steve suddenly puts two-and-two together. "You're the guy taking her out?"

"What the hell does it matter to you?" Bucky narrows his eyes.

"I'm done with this conversation," you announce. Both pairs of blue eyes, so vastly different, dart down to you. Both of the men are so much taller than you are—at least by a foot. "I just want to get my goddamn keys." You push between them to resume your walk to the restaurant.

"I can't believe you're taking my girlfriend out on a-a-a date," you can hear Steve stammer back behind you.

"Ex-girlfriend!" you shout.

Bucky agrees. "What she said."

"I don't hear from you in almost a month—is this why? You're too busy trying to win over Y/N?"

You groan in defeat—realizing that your restaurant keys are missing with your car ones. You turn and stomp back towards the stare-down between Bucky and Steve. The best friends are very close to brawling, you notice the startling fact because the tension between the two of them is so strong. It hurts your heart to imagine that you're the one that's caused this riff between them...

No, it wasn't your fault. This is all because of Steve, you remind yourself strictly. If only he'd broken up with you the old fashioned way and hadn't cheated on you and dragged his best friend into the mess... things could be different.

"What are you still doing here, Steve? I told you I don't want to talk," you dryly point out.

Steve opens his mouth to reply but Bucky interrupts him. "You find your keys?"

You shake your head in defeat.

"That's fine. I'll give you a ride." Bucky holds out his hand and you take it without second thought. Steve stares at the two of you with a dropped jaw. Shaking his head, he manages to close his lips. Bucky regards Steve's range of emotions for a brief moment. Then, looking back at you, he asks, "Can you give us a minute?"

You raise an eyebrow as if to ask, "Are you going to murder him?"

Bucky almost smiles. "It's fine." He looks you in the eyes as if to say, "He's my best friend, remember?"

You nod. Then, looking back at Steve, you realize you're expected to say something before you leave. "Maybe I'll forgive you someday, Steve, and satisfy that weird little part of you that craves acceptance by everyone. But I can't do that yet. Give me some space." You shake your head and swallow your pride as you manage to say, "I hope you find your happiness. I'm going to have no problem finding mine." You squeeze Bucky's hand and he looks down at you with widened eyes. "I'll be in the car." You turn and leave the two super soldiers to stand across one another in front of the glaring headlights.

It's only when you're gone that Bucky says something to Steve. You can't tell what it is—his back is to you so you can't even read his lips. The motor of the car is too loud. It's a convertible, but even without the glass separating you he's too far away to hear. His fists are clenched at his sides though and his back is rigid. You can almost taste his anger radiating through the air.

Steve replies quietly. He nods his head, looking everywhere except for Bucky's face, and seems to feel as ashamed as he ought to be. You take pride in his cowering for a brief moment before finding more joy in the reminder that after this you'll be headed out on a date with Bucky—the man standing up to Captain America, his best friend, for the sake of your broken heart.

When Bucky comes back to the car he leaves Steve standing alone in the headlights. Heated and tense he shifts the car into drive and peels out—making sure first that you've fully locked your seat belt.

"What did you say to him?" you finally ask.

Bucky swallows. He glances back at the restaurant through the rear-view mirror. Steve is long out of sight. "I told him that we both needed a break from him to figure things out. We both love him, in different ways. I don't expect you to forgive him, but I know you still have some sort of love for him." Bucky glances to you carefully.

Your eyes fall to your lap. "It's hard. I was in love with him for so long..." You shake your head. Your hair is being whipped around by the wind. "But I'm not in love with him anymore. I know I'll never be back in that place again."

"We both care about him. I hate to admit it, but he's still my friend. I just can't look at him now without thinking about how I really want to punch him in the face..." His hands tighten on the wheel.

"It's okay." You reach over to squeeze his leg comfortingly. "I understand." You look out at the moving scenery. "He's your best friend. You'll always love him. I don't expect you not to just because we're..." you struggle to finish the sentence.

"I do love him," Bucky replies.  "I love him like a brother." The convertible stops at a deserted red light. No one else is in sight. He glances over to you in the reddish-pink light. "But I love you, too."

You blink. "Like... a sister?" you squeak.

A chuckle rumbles deep in Bucky's chest. "Definitely not like a sister."

Your heart thunders so loud you can feel it pulsing between your eyes. "Bucky, I... I don't know what to say." You can't tell him that you love him, too. Of course you care for him, but you don't think your heart is in any shape to be falling in love just yet.

"Don't' worry about saying anything." The light switches to green but Bucky stays rooted in one spot. No one else is around, and he doesn't seem in any big rush to get going. He keeps staring at you longingly. "Take your time. I'm not looking for anything to happen tonight. I just want you to know that you're my priority, Y/N."

You finally give in on that desire to touch his face—the desire that's been brewing at the pit of your belly since that night three weeks ago. Your fingers gingerly trace some of the lighter scars before coming to whisper across the shape of his plump lower lip. Then you softly grip his jaw and bite your lip—hoping he gets the hint.

Bucky, chuckling again, unbuckles his seatbelt with a quick metal hand. He leans across the front seat to kiss you—harder and with more confidence than you've ever been kissed before. His hands hold you by the back of your neck and his body curls closer as you smile against his soft, eager lips. You shiver and Bucky holds you closer—protecting your body from the slight chill with the warmth of his lingering over you. The feelings in your tummy from before are gone—replaced with the wildest, biggest butterflies the world's ever seen. The light swinging above the dropped-top convertible swayed back and forth with a gentle breeze: the green color illuminating the dark street ever so slightly.

It all comes down to this.

This kiss.