After everything-the Thunderbolts, the mess of second chances, the silence that follows-Bucky Barnes wants anonymity. He wants to be no one. He drifts through Brooklyn until he stumbles across your shop, tucked into a quiet street that smells like cinnamon and dust. You're the kind of person who remembers details, who curates things with care. And unfortunately, you know exactly who he is. You don't get along at first. He's closed off, defensive. You're sharp-eyed and uninterested in playing nice. But the past clings to him like the worn leather of that 1940s bomber jacket he keeps coming back to. And despite yourself, you're drawn to the quiet ache in his eyes.
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