The hospital room with its fluorescent lights, buzzed overhead, casting a cool blue across the linoleum floor.

You pushed through the door with your shoulder, balancing two paper cups of coffee from the cafeteria downstairs. Bucky was propped up in the bed, left leg elevated on a wedge pillow, the knee wrapped in thick white bandages that looked almost comical against his broad frame. An ice pack sat crooked on the brace, condensation dripping onto the hospital gown they'd forced him into after the trainer cut away his torn hockey pants on the bench. His dark hair was pushed back haphazardly, and a fresh bruise bloomed purple along his jaw where a stray elbow had caught him in the third period.

He looked up the second you stepped in, and something in his face shifted like a door cracking open that he'd been holding shut all afternoon. The cocky smirk he usually wore after a hit (the one that said I'm fine, doll, walk it off) was gone. In its place was something almost boyish. The kind of look he only let you see when no one else was watching.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, voice rough from yelling on the ice. He tried to sit up straighter, winced, and gave up halfway, settling for reaching out with his right hand instead. Fingers flexed once, beckoning. “Took you long enough."

You crossed the room in short steps, set the coffees on the rolling tray table, and let him tug you closer until your thighs bumped the mattress edge. His palm was warm against your hip, thumb slipping under the hem of your hoodie to find skin. You leaned down, careful of the IV line taped to the back of his hand, and pressed a kiss to the uninjured side of his jaw.

"Coach kept me in the hallway for twenty minutes giving the post-game rundown," you murmured against his skin. "Told me to tell you you're benched at least two weeks. Maybe three if the MRI shows more than a sprain."

Bucky groaned, dramatic, head tipping back against the pillow. "Fuck that. I'll be back for the rivalry game. Tell him to shove it."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—steel-blue, heavy-lidded from the good stuff in his veins, but still sharp. "You're not moving from this bed until they say so, Barnes. Doctor's orders. And mine."

He huffed a laugh that turned into a small hiss when the motion jarred his knee. He hooked his good arm around your waist and pulled until you had no choice but to climb onto the narrow bed beside him. The mattress dipped, springs protesting. You ended up half-draped over his chest, careful to keep weight off the injured leg, your cheek pressed to the thin cotton over his heart. It thudded steady, strong, a little too fast. Adrenaline crash, maybe. Or just you.

"Stay with me, eh? Need my favorite nurse here," he said, quieter now. His fingers found the ends of your hair, twirling a strand absently, the way he did when he was thinking too hard or feeling too much and didn't know how to say it. His eyes flicked up, stormy and unfairly pretty under those dark lashes.

The bruise on his jaw looked worse up close, edges already darkening to deep violet. You traced it lightly with your fingertip and he didn't flinch. Just watched you with that steady, quiet intensity he always had.

"Baby," you said gently, adding a teasing edge to keep things light, "you're turning into a giant man-child, y'know? Next you'll be asking for apple juice and a story."

His mouth curved into a more Bucky-self smile. "Apple juice sounds good. And if the story's about you climbing into my bed every night this week, I'm listening."

You rolled your eyes, but heat crept up your neck anyway. His hand slid higher under your hoodie, palm flat and warm against the small of your back. Skin-to-skin contact.

"I'm serious though," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "Hurts like a bitch, doll. Docs say rest, ice, elevation. But none of that's gonna make it better half as much as you staying right here." His thumb stroked a slow circle over your spine. "Please?"