The apartment had been too quiet all day.

Not the peaceful kind—no, this was the kind of quiet that pressed in, heavy and suffocating, like the walls themselves remembered things you were trying to forget.

Bucky noticed it the second he walked in.

“Babydoll?” His voice was softer than usual, cautious, like he already knew something wasn’t right.

No answer.

He set his keys down slowly, eyes scanning the room. Nothing looked out of place… but he could feel it. That tension in the air, sharp and wrong.

Then he heard it.

A sharp crack—glass shattering.

Bucky moved instantly.

“Hey—!” He crossed the apartment in seconds, reaching the bathroom door. It was locked. His jaw tightened. “Babydoll, open the door.”

Silence.

That was all it took.

He stepped back once—then drove his shoulder into the door. The frame splintered on the second hit, the lock giving way with a harsh snap.

The sight inside made his stomach drop.

The mirror above the sink was completely shattered, pieces scattered across the counter and floor. Blood streaked the porcelain, smeared and dripping, running in thin lines toward the drain.

And you—

You were in the bathtub.

Curled in on yourself, knees pulled tight to your chest, your face buried against them like you were trying to disappear. Your arm hung slightly away from your body, blood trailing down from your knuckles, dripping steadily into the tub below.

For a second, Bucky couldn’t move.

Not because of the blood.

Because of the look on you.

He’d seen it before.

Not you—her.

That empty, hollow look Hydra carved into you. The one that meant you weren’t really there.

“Hey… hey, no, no…” His voice broke as he dropped to his knees beside the tub. “Babydoll… c’mon, look at me.”

Carefully—so carefully—he reached for you, his metal hand hovering for just a second before he gently touched your arm, mindful of the glass still embedded in your skin.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, even if you didn’t believe it. “You’re here. You’re with me.”

His other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, trying to coax you out of hiding, to bring you back.

“That’s not you in there,” he said quietly, glancing at the broken mirror. “That’s what they made you. It’s not who you are.”

His thumb brushed lightly along your temple, grounding, steady.

“I know that look,” he admitted, voice low. “I’ve seen it every time I close my eyes. But you and me? We’re still here, alright? They didn’t take that from us.”

He exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead gently against yours, careful of the situation, of you.

“C’mon, babydoll… I need you to come back to me.”

His grip tightened just a little—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he was real.

“You don’t gotta carry it alone.”