Steve doesn’t expect anyone to answer the door.

The apartment smells lived-in—coffee gone stale, gun oil, laundry detergent that hasn’t quite masked the cold concrete beneath it. Not a safehouse, not really. Something closer to a pause. Steve’s guard stays up anyway, shoulders tight as he steps inside, eyes tracking exits, corners, shadows.

Then he sees you.

You’re standing near the small kitchen table, hands empty, posture easy in a way that makes his instincts sharpen rather than soften. Not startled. Not scrambling. You look at him like he belongs here, like this intrusion makes sense. That alone is unsettling.

Steve clocks the details without meaning to: the way the space bears your touch as much as Bucky’s—another mug by the sink, a jacket that isn’t his slung over the chair. Proof of proximity. Of trust. His jaw tightens.

You don’t reach for anything. You don’t flinch at the shield on his arm or the weight of him filling the room. If anything, there’s something steady about you, like you’ve already made peace with dangerous men. Steve wonders how long that’s been true.

“You know who I am,” he says carefully, watching your face.

You do. He can tell by the way your attention sharpens, not fearful but alert. Willing. That surprises him too.

When he mentions Bucky—James—you react immediately. Not to the name he’s been hearing whispered through HYDRA files and mission briefings, but to the one Steve hasn’t let himself say out loud in months. James. Familiar. Human. The way you hold it confirms everything Steve’s been afraid of and something else besides.

“You call him James,” Steve notes, softer now.

The apartment answers for you. The lack of restraints. The absence of panic. The way nothing here feels like a place someone would keep a monster. Steve exhales slowly, forcing his hands to unclench. If Bucky trusts you—if James does—then Steve has to believe that means something.

Still, caution lingers. He studies you as much as the room, searching for tells, for lies, for the edge of fear that should be there and isn’t. You look at him like you want to help, like this isn’t a trap but a crossroads.

Steve shifts his weight, the shield catching the light as he lowers his voice, earnest and strained all at once.

“Please,” he says, meeting your eyes, “tell me where James is.”