Saving Bucky-Rewrite

Bucky's POV:

After another long ride today, I found myself back at the bar. It's turned into a routine now, especially on the nights I know she'll be here.

She's changed since I first saw her. Back then, there was something bright about her—a spark that drew everyone in. Even now, she still has this presence, but it's dimmer, like she's carrying something heavy she doesn't talk about. Her smile isn't the same; it's beautiful, sure, but strained, like it takes effort.

The ring she used to wear is gone. I noticed that a while ago. Stella talks to her about men sometimes, loudly and without much tact, but I've never heard her say a word about the relationship she left behind. Is that why she seems so sad?

Over the past few months, she's been changing in other ways, too. There's a defiance in the way she presents herself now, like she's trying to reclaim something she lost. She's gotten more tattoos, and I can't help but notice each one when I see her behind the bar. Some are intricate, detailed, like they carry a story. Others are simple, like she decided on a whim and just went for it.

She's added a few piercings, too, and her hair... God, the way she changes her hair. Red one week, blue the next, sometimes purple, but she always seems to come back to black. It suits her. She could shave her head, and I'd still think she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

But I keep my distance.

I have to. It's not safe for her—for anyone—for me to get close. So I stay in the shadows, in my usual corner, where I can watch her without being noticed. She never pressures me to talk, never pushes for anything beyond what I'm willing to give. She just takes my drink order, cashes me out, and offers me that beautiful, bittersweet smile that hits me harder than it should.

If things were different—if I were different—I'd do everything I could to put a real smile on her face. The kind she used to have. The kind that lights up a room and makes you feel like the world isn't so bad after all.

But for now, all I can do is sit here, admire her from afar, and wonder...

Oh, doll... who hurt you?

Olivia's POV:

It's yet another night in this miserable pit of a town. The bar is quiet tonight, so slow it feels like the clock is dragging its hands. Midnight rolls around, and the usual suspects are still here, hanging on to the night like they've got nowhere better to be.

Stella is already passed out on the bar, head buried in her arms, mumbling something incoherent every few minutes. Jerry finishes his whiskey, pays his tab, and gives me a knowing look before shaking her awake just enough to shuffle her out the door. He mutters something about "babysitting drunks" as he half-drags her to his car. For all his grumbling, I know he doesn't mind. He'd never admit it, but Stella's chaos gives him something to care about.

Jake is slumped at the end of the bar, still nursing the coffee I gave him an hour ago after cutting him off. Poor kid. He's harmless, just young and trying too hard to figure out who he is. Tonight, though, he's too far gone to even try flirting with the waitresses.

And then there's him.

Mr. Mysterious is in his usual corner, sipping his whiskey, the brim of his baseball cap casting a shadow over his face. He comes in here almost every night, sitting alone, barely saying a word. Every time I glance in his direction, I catch him looking at me, but his eyes dart down like he's been caught doing something wrong.

There's something about him that I can't figure out. He's quiet, almost painfully so, but there's an intensity to him, like he's carrying the weight of something he'll never talk about. He doesn't bother anyone, doesn't engage, just sits there, lost in thought.