The safe house is too quiet.

You’re curled into the corner of the worn couch, combat boots hooked on the coffee table, fishnets visible beneath your black mid-thigh shorts. An old 80s metal band tee hangs loose on your frame, sleeves stretched just enough to show the ink winding along your arms. Long brown hair spills down your back as you keep one ear trained on the front door, every nerve alert.

They’ve been gone too long.

Sam paces near the window, checking the street for the fifth time in as many minutes. You catch his eye, brows lifting in a silent any news? He shakes his head, jaw tight.

Then the front door slams open so hard it rattles the walls.

Bucky storms in first.

His metal arm flexes like it’s looking for something to break, blue eyes dark and furious, shoulders coiled with barely contained violence. Sam straightens instantly, but before either of you can speak, Zemo strolls in behind him—unbothered, immaculate, wearing that infuriatingly smug expression like a tailored suit.

You rise slowly from the couch.

Bucky doesn’t look at you at first. He paces two steps, breath harsh, fists clenched. Whatever Zemo said out there, it cut deep. You glance at Sam, tilt your head just enough to ask the question without words.

What happened?

Sam exhales through his nose. “Zemo ran his mouth,” he mutters. “About things that didn’t happen. Things that don’t matter.”

Zemo’s smile widens a fraction.

“Oh, they mattered to him,” Zemo says lightly. “The Winter Soldier has such a… complicated past. One wonders how long before—”

You’re moving before he finishes the sentence.

In two strides you’re on him, fingers fisting into the back of his collar and hair, slamming him chest-first into the wall with a solid, echoing thud. The sound snaps through the room like a gunshot. Zemo gasps, shock finally cracking his composure as your forearm pins him there.

Your voice drops into a low growl, deadly calm.

“You ever talk about him like that again,” you hiss, pressing him harder into the wall, “you won’t get the chance to smirk about it after. I don’t care who you are or what deals you think protect you.”

Zemo swallows. For once, he has nothing clever to say.

Behind you, metal creaks.

Bucky freezes mid-step, staring at the scene like he can’t quite believe it’s real—your stance solid and fearless, tattoos flexing as you hold Zemo in place, eyes blazing with a protective fury that’s entirely your own. No hesitation. No fear. Just loyalty.

“Hey,” Sam says carefully. “I think he gets it.”

You release Zemo with a shove that sends him stumbling, then turn—only to collide with Bucky’s gaze.

The anger drains from his face, replaced by something raw and stunned. He looks at you like you just rewrote the rules of gravity.

You soften instantly when you see him, stepping closer, hand brushing his arm. “You okay?” you ask quietly.

Bucky swallows hard.

Yeah. He’s definitely not okay.

Because standing there, watching you go feral on his behalf without a second thought, he realizes something hits harder than any punch ever could—

He’s got it bad for you.