𝗕𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗬 𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

You Belong With Me

SONG REQUEST FOR THIS CHAPTER: YOU BELONG WITH ME by TAYLOR SWIFT

I haven't posted on here in almost a year, and I'm not gonna lie, I kinda forgot about this book.

1,105 Words

I've known Bucky Barnes since the third grade.

Back when he used to push kids off the monkey bars and then help them up a second later with a crooked smile and a, "You okay, pal?" Back when he didn't have that leather jacket he always wears now, or the little scar above his eyebrow that he says he got from "falling off his skateboard," but I'm pretty sure came from a fight with that jerk from the football team last year.

And I've loved him since freshman year.

Which is probably pathetic, considering I've watched him date at least three different girls since then—most recently, Alana. Blonde. Cheerleader.

"Y/N!" Bucky's voice calls me back to the present as he jogs to catch up with me in the hallway. "Hey, wait up!"

I pause by my locker, heart already kicking up like it always does when he's around. I glance over my shoulder. He's grinning like he always does when he sees me—like we have this little inside joke the rest of the world missed.

"Hey," I say, trying not to look like I was just thinking about how his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

He leans against the locker next to mine. "You still coming to the game Friday?"

I give him a look. "Do I ever miss one?"

He laughs. "Right. You're my good luck charm."

You have no idea how much I wish that meant something more.

Alana shows up a second later, flipping her perfect hair over her shoulder. She hooks her arm through his and gives me the kind of smile that makes it very clear I don't belong in her world.

"Hi, Y/N," she says in that sugary-sweet voice she always uses when Bucky's around.

"Hi, Alana," I reply, just as sweet, because I may be quiet, but I'm not spineless.

She turns back to Bucky. "Ready to go, babe?"

And just like that, he's walking away, glancing back once to give me a wave. I wave back. Then I close my locker door and try to pretend it doesn't feel like part of my chest just cracked open.

🦾🦾🦾

Friday night. The game is brutal.

Not because we're losing—we're actually winning—but because I have to sit there in the bleachers, watching Alana cheer on the sidelines, and Bucky—my Bucky—grinning every time she blows him a kiss. I'm squeezed between my best friend, Kate, and a kid who's wearing too much cologne.

"You okay?" Kate whispers at halftime.

I nod, but it's a lie.

Because it hurts. Watching him with her. Knowing he tells me everything—except how he feels. Knowing I'm just the girl who listens to his rants about practice, who helps him with chemistry homework, who cheers him on louder than anyone—and who'll never be the one he chooses.

🦾🦾🦾

Monday changes everything.

I see Bucky in the library after last period. He's slouched at a table in the corner, hoodie pulled up, head in his hands.

I know something's wrong before I even reach him.

"Bucky?" He looks up. His eyes are red. I sit down without asking. "What happened?"

He lets out a bitter laugh. "She cheated on me."

I blink. "Alana?"

He nods, jaw tight. "With some college guy. Apparently he's got a motorcycle. Real classy."

I hesitate, because part of me wants to jump up and shout, *I told you so*, but I don't. I just sit with him.

"She said she was bored," he adds quietly, like that's what really broke him.

I want to punch something.

"You're not boring, Bucky."

He finally looks at me. Really looks at me. "Then why doesn't anyone stay?"

I don't know what makes me say it. Maybe it's the way his voice cracks, or how tired he looks, or maybe it's just because I can't keep pretending.

"Maybe," I whisper, "you're looking in the wrong place."

His brow furrows. "What?"

I don't look away this time. "You want someone who actually listens to you. Who doesn't treat you like some trophy. Who remembers how you like your coffee and doesn't roll their eyes when you talk about comic books."

He goes quiet.

I keep going, because the words are finally coming out after years of being buried.

"You've been chasing all these girls who don't even see you. But I do. I always have."

Silence.

The library is so quiet I swear I can hear the fluorescent lights buzzing.

Then Bucky speaks, and his voice is soft. "Y/N..."

"Sorry," I mutter, heart hammering in my chest. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No. I—" He runs a hand through his hair. "You're right. I was looking in the wrong place."

I freeze.

"What?"

"I was so caught up in what I thought I wanted, I didn't realize what I needed was right in front of me the whole time."

He's still looking at me like I'm the only person in the world. And it's terrifying. And wonderful.

"You really mean that?" I ask, barely breathing.

He reaches across the table, taking my hand in his.

"I should've seen it sooner," he says. "You've always been there. Every game. Every time I fell apart. And you never asked for anything."

"I didn't need to," I whisper. "I just wanted you to be happy."

"Well," he says, eyes searching mine, "what if being with you is what makes me happy?"

My heart does a full-on cartwheel.

"You're not just saying that because you're hurt?" I ask, voice shaking.

He shakes his head. "No. I'm saying it because I've spent the last three years trying to make something work that was never real, while the one person who's always been real was right here."

I let out a shaky laugh. "Wow."

"Yeah." He smiles, squeezing my hand. "So... will you go out with me? Like, a real date. No football games. No pretending we're just friends."

I smile so hard it hurts.

"I'd love that."

🦾🦾🦾

The next Friday, I show up to the game wearing his jacket.

It's way too big on me, and people definitely stare—but Bucky grins like he's won the lottery when he sees me.

He jogs over, presses a quick kiss to my cheek, and says, "Told you you were my good luck charm."

I watch him run back to the field, heart full in a way it's never been before.

Because for the first time, he finally saw me.

And I don't need to wear short skirts or have perfect hair to matter.

He belongs with me.

And now—finally—I belong with him.

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