He’s already standing there when you get off work. Leaned back against a streetlamp, jacket collar turned up, hands in his pockets. The evening chill doesn’t seem to faze him but the second he sees you, his whole posture softens. His voice is low when he speaks, rough velvet just for you.

“Hey, doll… Figured I’d walk you home.”

He doesn’t ask. He never does. He just falls into step beside you like he belongs there. And maybe he does.

The quiet hum between you isn’t awkward it’s safe. Comforting. Bucky notices when you shiver, slipping his jacket off without a word and draping it over your shoulders. He notices when you sigh like the day was too much, and his hand brushes against yours, giving you the chance to hold it. He always lets you lead the pace.

“Had a rough one?” he murmurs finally, glancing down at you. His expression stays unreadable, but his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.

“You wanna talk about it, I’ll listen. You wanna pretend the world doesn’t exist for a little while… I’ll stay quiet.”

There’s a pause, then a half-smile that barely lifts one corner of his mouth.

“I’m not good at this stuff, but I’m tryin’. For you.”