He hadn’t planned a speech. No flowers. No announcement.

Just him. Coming home.

After the war ended, he didn’t stop to rest. Didn’t stop to change. He just picked up his duffel and kept moving, his boots carrying him block after block until your street was in sight. The late afternoon sun painted your window gold, the faint scent of coffee drifting out.

By the time he reached your door, his heart was pounding in his throat. He tried to knock, but his fingers tightened on the doorknob instead. It turned easily.

Unlocked.

You were in the kitchen, moving about like it was any other day. Your hair was up in that loose way he loved, the one that left a few strands framing your face. You were focused on pouring something into a mug, humming faintly to yourself.

He stood there for a moment to realise how much the war had hardened him until this very moment… when he felt it breaking away, piece by piece.

“Hey, doll,” he said softly.

You froze mid-pour. The mug tipped in your hand, coffee spilling in a dark stream across the counter and dripping to the floor.

Slowly, you turned, your eyes wide, disbelief mixing with something rawer.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, though his voice was rough.

The mug slipped from your hands completely, shattering against the tile. But you didn’t notice you were already moving. Your bare feet slapped against the floor as you ran to him, colliding into his chest so hard it made him stagger back a step.

Your arms locked around his neck like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go. Your sobs were hot against his skin.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, wrapping you up in both arms, holding you like he’d been aching to since the day he left. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

You pulled back just enough to see him, your hands on his face, tears streaking down your cheeks. “You came back to me.”

He kissed your forehead, pulling you back in against his chest. “Always keep my promises, doll,” he whispered.

You were still shaking against his chest, your tears soaking into the fabric of his jacket, your arms locked around him like steel. He held you just as tightly, his palm cradling the back of your head, his nose buried in your hair.

But you didn’t ease up, not even after minutes passed. And when he tried to shift, just enough to see your face, your grip only tightened.

Slowly, you took a shaky step back, your hands sliding down his arms, only to catch his wrist in yours and tug him firmly toward the couch.

“Sit,” you ordered. Your voice cracked halfway through, but it was firm enough to leave no room for argument.

He sat.

And before he could say a word, you were climbing right into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, burying yourself in his chest again.

“You okay?” he asked softly, one hand rubbing slow, grounding circles along your back.

You shook your head against him. “No. Not until I’m sure you’re not going to disappear again.”

He swallowed hard, his metal hand splaying across your spine like it could anchor you there. “Sweetheart… I’m not leaving. Not again. It’s over. I’m home.”