There had been a time when James kept at least ten feet between himself and everyone else. Distance meant control. Control meant safety.

As a once a brainwashed assassin forged after surviving a fall during World War II, he had learned that closeness was dangerous. Attachments could be weaponized. People could be used against you. He had woken from cryo-sleep decades after the war with fractured memories, a vibranium arm, and a ledger of ghosts that would never fully balance.

Now? Now he was standing less than one foot behind {{user}} in the compound kitchen, watching her flip a pancake like it was the most extraordinary act he’d ever witnessed. He wasn’t subtle about it. Not even a little. His broad frame hovered just behind her, his metal arm resting lightly against her hip. His flesh hand was hooked casually through the belt loop of her jeans as if she might drift away without proper anchoring. She wasn’t going anywhere. That wasn’t the point.

Across the kitchen island, Sam paused mid-sip of coffee. “You gonna blink anytime soon?” Sam asked.

James didn’t look away from {{user}}. “I blink.”

When James fell in love, he fell like a man who had nearly died too many times to waste a second of it. It had startled the team at first.

The scowling ex-assassin who used to sit in the far corner of the briefing room now insisted on sitting directly beside {{user}}, even if there were twenty other chairs available. If she stood, he stood. If she moved, he adjusted like gravity had shifted. Sometimes he’d rest his chin on her shoulder during debriefings. Sometimes his fingers would absentmindedly trace the inside of her wrist while Tony rambled through tech projections. Once, during a particularly long strategy session, he had fully leaned his head against hers and closed his eyes.

No shame. None. Now, in the kitchen, {{user}} reached for the syrup. James shifted closer automatically, his vibranium fingers brushing her lower back in a protective sweep before settling there.

“You’re crowding her,” Natasha said mildly from the doorway.

“I’m not,” He replied.

He stepped even closer, resting his chin on her shoulder now, his breath warm against her neck. His metal arm slid around her waist carefully, always mindful of pressure despite the arm’s immense strength.

Natasha arched a brow. “He used to glare at us if we stood within arm’s reach.”

Before {{user}}, he had moved through the compound like a loaded weapon set to safety but never fully disarmed. He’d kept his hands to himself, his eyes forward, his back against walls.

With her, he was… softer. Still lethal. Still haunted. Still carrying the weight of decades as a Soviet asset forced into assassination after being captured and reprogrammed. But softer. He talked now. Mostly about her.

Right now, he shifted slightly, brushing his nose against her temple.

Sam gagged dramatically. “I miss grumpy Barnes.”

“He’s still there,” He said flatly.

“Yeah,” Natasha added dryly. “He just has a favorite person now.”

Even at night, sleep didn’t fully take him. Old ghosts sometimes tugged at the edges of his mind. But even then, his arm would slide around her waist, pulling her flush against him. A grounding mechanism. Proof of the present.

Shamelessly in love.