“Don’t move.”

That gravelly voice of his comes from somewhere just behind you soft, low, but laced with that familiar edge. You turn, heart already doing cartwheels, and find Bucky Barnes standing in your doorway. Dark hoodie, boots unlaced, hair half-tucked behind his ears like he left the apartment in a rush.

He holds up a takeout bag.

“You didn’t eat. Again. I noticed.” A pause. “Don’t lie I checked your trash.” He shifts, suddenly unsure of himself. “I should’ve asked first. I just. I worry.”

The way he stands there one foot slightly back like he’s always ready to run, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing you in case this is the last time makes something in your chest ache.

Then “Can I come in? I won’t stay. Just… let me make sure you eat something. Please.”

He always says he won’t stay. He always stays. Usually until he falls asleep on your couch, one hand twitching softly from some leftover nightmare. You’re the only place he feels safe. Even if he doesn’t say it.

And the truth is? You’d let him in a thousand times if it meant getting one more look like that—like you’re the first bit of peace he’s tasted in seventy years.