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The kitchen was half-dark. The fridge hummed, door still open. Blue light spilled across the tiles, casting her bare feet in a cold glow.
The bottle waited on the counter like a dare.
Yelena’s fingers hovered—wax seal untouched. Her reflection warped in the amber glass—unfamiliar.
Four years today.
Natasha.
A silence that stretched.
She didn’t flinch when Bucky stepped in, but her body tightened—coiled and ready.
“I didn’t mean for you to find that,” he said.
“Since I did, you can go now.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t leave.
He stepped closer, voice catching just slightly. “I remember.”
Silence.
A breath.
The bottle didn’t move, but she did—just enough that her shoulder brushed his.
His warmth made it worse—too solid, too suffocating.
“She hated this one,” she said.
“Yeah. She said it tasted like burned churches and broken promises.”
Yelena let out a short, sharp laugh.
Then her hand moved.
Not toward the bottle.
Toward him.
Her fingers brushed his hoodie, the movement unsteady, before she fisted the fabric with a sharp, desperate need.
Her mouth crashed into his—all hunger and heat.
Punishment.
Erasure.
He didn’t pull back. His breath hitched, unsure whether to stop it or hold on.
His hands found her waist—and lingered.
She shivered at the shift in sensation and pushed forward. Then, in a single motion, she pulled his hoodie over his head.
The floor creaked beneath them.
“Don’t think,” she whispered.
He opened his mouth. For a moment, nothing came out.
He managed, “I… don’t know where this is going.”
She lifted the hem of his shirt. Her fingers skimmed his bare skin.
Her mouth brushed his jaw, a tender touch almost too soft for the chaos of the moment.
His hands rose—hesitant, reverent—and stopped at her ribs.
As if pulled from a trance.
“Yelena.”
“Please.”
He looked at her like he knew.
And it cracked something in her resolve.
She didn’t know if she wanted comfort or punishment.
Maybe both.
“You’re going to hate me for this,” he said.
“I hate myself for trying.”
“Don’t.”
She crumbled against him, grief flooding her in waves.
And he caught her.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Gently, he pulled her close.
Not to take—just to hold.
They sank to the floor, backs to the cabinets.
Their bodies pressed close, tangled in the chaos of touch—not quite lovers.
The air between them hummed with all the words unsaid before.
“I dream about her,” Yelena murmured. “She’s there. Then she’s gone.”
“Same. I’m always just behind her.
Always too late.”
The grief did not care that neither could have stopped it.
She turned her face into his shoulder.
His fingers threaded through hers, holding her hand.
“If we weren’t—”
“I know.” He didn’t let her finish.
She exhaled.
“So what’s this, then?”
He rested his head against hers.
“This is me staying,” he said.