Saving Bucky-Rewrite

Bucky's POV:

This is bad. Really bad.

I needed to just keep to myself. Stay quiet. Stay invisible. But no, I had to open my mouth. I told her my real name. My real name. What the hell was I thinking? This could put me at risk. Worse, it could put her at risk.

Why did I do it?

Whiskey. That's why. But it wasn't just that. She asked for help, and God help me, I couldn't say no. She's so... gorgeous. (No. I can't think like that.) I'll help her with the sink and then go back to blending into the shadows where I belong.

She finishes cleaning the bar, locking the doors, moving around with practiced ease. Her tired smile hasn't left her face, even as she leans against the counter to grab the last of her things.

"Follow me," she says, motioning toward the back.

I trail after her toward a narrow staircase.

"What's up here?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

"My apartment," she replies over her shoulder.

"You live here?"

"Yep. Not ideal, but hey, it makes my work commute quick. C'mon, just up here."

She heads up the stairs, and I follow, my boots thudding on the wooden steps. She opens the door to a small studio apartment, and I step inside. It's simple, lived-in, and cozy in a way I don't quite understand.

The smell hits me first. Cherry blossom mixed with... peach? It's soft, warm, and intoxicating. It smells like her, and it's messing with my head.

She kicks off her shoes near the door and pulls her hair out of the ponytail she'd been wearing. It falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and she rubs her scalp like she's shaking off the long day. I'm frozen. God, she's beautiful.

I don't know how long I was staring, but her voice snaps me back to reality.

"Hey! Earth to Bucky?" she says, giggling. "You okay? You're staring."

My stomach knots, and I quickly look down. "I'm so sorry," I mumble.

"Don't be," she says with a soft laugh. "You glare a lot, so... kinda used to it."

Her words catch me off guard, and I feel heat creeping up my neck. I go stiff, unsure of what to say.

"Hey," she says softly, reaching out to touch my left arm. I move away before she can.

Her hand freezes midair, and for a moment, she looks thrown. Hurt, maybe. I hate myself for that.

"Okay," she says, pulling her hand back. "Well, the sink is in the bathroom." She points to a small door in the corner.

I nod, wordlessly, and head into the bathroom. The sink is small, simple, and clearly clogged. Easy enough to fix.

"Would you like some coffee?" she calls from the other room. "Or will it keep you up?"

I hesitate before answering. "Well, I don't sleep much, so... sure."

"Yeah, me neither," I hear her mumble under her breath.

The quiet confession hits me like a punch to the gut. I pause, hands hovering over the sink, and glance toward the door. She doesn't elaborate, doesn't even seem to realize she said it.

I turn back to the sink and get to work, but her words stick with me. The way she said it—casual, resigned, like she's been carrying it for so long it's just part of her now.