CQ

The café became Bucky’s only anchor in a world that still felt too loud and too fast. He came for the black coffee, but he stayed for you. You were a master of your own small domain, moving behind the counter with a grace that made his breath hitch, your tongue sharp enough to dismantle a difficult customer while your hands stayed steady and kind. He didn't speak; he didn't even order more than a refill. He just claimed the quiet corner, his metal fingers tracing the rim of his mug while he memorized the way you tucked your hair back and the specific, golden frequency of your laugh. You were a person of substance, principled and bright, and he was a man still haunted by the ghosts of his own making. He was terrified that a single word from him would shatter the peace you held so effortlessly, so he remained a silent sentinel, falling in love in thirty-minute increments, content to just exist in the same air as you until he could find the courage to finally say hello.