𝗕𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗬 𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

Red Roses

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! Sorry for the late post...I had Valentine's plans 😏

SONG REQUEST FOR THIS CHAPTER: NAKED by JAMES ARTHUR

1,963 Words

The first thing I remember is the sound.

Not pain. Not the antiseptic sting in the air or the distant hum of machinery.

Just the soft hydraulic hiss of the medical wing door sliding open.

For a moment, I think I'm still dreaming. My body feels heavy, like it's been stitched back together with sandbags instead of sutures. There's a dull ache in my ribs that pulses with my heartbeat, and when I try to shift even slightly, a sharp reminder shoots through my side, telling me in no uncertain terms that I'm not cleared for anything resembling movement.

Right. Mission. Warehouse. Explosives. The ceiling coming down. And then, darkness.

I force my eyes open, blinking against the sterile white lights overhead. The room swims into focus slowly: monitors blinking green and blue, IV line taped to my arm, the faint rhythmic beeping confirming that, yes, I am still alive.

The door finishes opening with a quiet click.

And then I see him.

Bucky stands in the doorway like something out of a dream I would've been too afraid to hope for. His hair is pulled back loosely at the nape of his neck, a few strands falling forward around his face. His jaw is shadowed, like he hasn't slept properly in days. He's wearing a dark henley and jeans, and his metal arm glints under the lights as he shifts his weight.

In his flesh hand, he's holding the biggest bouquet of red roses I've ever seen. In the crook of his vibranium arm? A ridiculous pile of my favorite snacks—chocolate bars, sour gummies, that specific brand of popcorn I always pretend I don't eat in one sitting. And draped over that same arm, my blanket. The one from my bed in our shared room. The soft gray one that smells faintly like his cologne and laundry detergent. Tucked under his other arm is his laptop.

For a second, I just stare at him.

He stares back.

Then his face breaks into the softest smile I've ever seen. "Hey, doll," he says gently.

My throat tightens so fast it almost hurts more than my ribs. "Hi."

My voice comes out raspy, weak. His smile falters for just a fraction of a second, and I see it—the fear he hasn't quite shaken. He steps fully into the room, and the door slides shut behind him.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he says, lifting the bouquet slightly like he just remembered he's holding a small garden in his hand.

My brain short-circuits.

Valentine's Day.

Oh.

God.

It's our first one.

And I'm in a hospital bed.

"You—" I swallow. "You didn't have to—"

He crosses the room in a few long strides and carefully sets the bouquet on the side table before I can finish that sentence. He adjusts it so I can see it clearly from the bed.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I did."

Up close, I can see the faint bruise along his cheekbone. Probably from the same mission. His eyes scan me automatically—IV, bandages, the wrap around my ribs visible beneath the thin hospital gown. He reaches out, hesitates for half a heartbeat, then brushes his fingers gently against my cheek.