You’re running.

Not jogging. Not hurrying.

Running.

Your lungs burn, your duffel bag thumps against your hip, and your brain is doing that frantic spiral of late late late late—

A horn blares.

You don’t even look.

“Sorry!” you shout anyway, darting between two cars like that somehow fixes it.

If you miss another class, you’re done. No spot. No housing. No anything. Your instructor already looks at you like you’re hanging by a thread.

Your foot catches.

There’s a split second where you know—oh, this is going to be bad.

And then—

You hit the pavement.

Hard.

Everything rattles. Your cheek smacks the ground, your bag sliding out of your grip as the world goes briefly, mercifully blank.

When it comes back, it comes back loud.

Engines. Horns. Someone yelling.

You groan, rolling just enough to breathe properly, pressing your forehead to the street like maybe you can just melt into it.

You don’t move.

Honestly?

You don’t want to.

“Hey—hey, you’re gonna get up,” a voice says, close now. Firm. Low. “Light’s about to—”

“I know,” you mumble into the pavement.

You hear it shift.

You still don’t move.

Footsteps—fast, deliberate.

“Okay, no, we’re not doing this—c’mon—”

You lift your head just enough to look at him.

And—

Okay.

That’s… a face.

Strong jaw, dark hair, eyes sharp in a way that feels like they’re taking you in all at once—checking for damage, for danger, for something. There’s metal where an arm should be, catching the streetlight in dull silver.

Huh.

You blink at him.

“Can you give me five minutes?” you ask, completely serious. “I just need to wallow.”

He stares at you. “You’re in the middle of the street.”

“Yeah.”

“Cars are about to—”

“Yeah.”

You hold his gaze.

A beat.

He looks like he’s trying to decide if you’re joking.

You are not.

“I don’t care if I get hit right now,” you add, because honesty feels important.

His expression does something complicated. “That is not reassuring.”

Another voice cuts in, lighter, amused. “What did you find, Buck?”

You tilt your head slightly.

There’s another guy now—tall, easy stance, watching this whole thing like it’s the best show he’s seen all week.

“I think he’s concussed,” Bucky says.

“I’m not concussed,” you mutter, pushing up onto your elbows with effort. “I’m late.”

“Late for what?” the second guy—Sam, apparently—asks.

“…Ballet.”

There’s a pause.

You can feel it.

You sit up a little more, wincing, brushing grit from your cheek. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“You ran through traffic for ballet,” Sam says.

“Yes.”

“You fell in traffic for ballet.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re considering dying in traffic for ballet.”

You squint at him. “That’s not what I said. I’d be dying because I can’t afford to miss another class.”

“…Damn,” Sam mutters.

A horn BLARES.

Bucky snaps back into motion. “Okay, nope—existential crisis later—c’mon.”

Before you can argue, his hand is on your arm—warm, solid—and he pulls you up like you weigh nothing.

You wobble.

He doesn’t let go.

“Easy,” he says, quieter now.

You steady yourself, blinking up at him. Up close, he’s… a lot. Broad shoulders, that same intense focus, like the whole world narrowed down to whether you’re okay.

“…Thanks,” you say.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, still holding on for a second longer than necessary.

Another horn.

“Sidewalk,” Sam orders.

You’re guided—half-walked, half-herded—until you’re safely out of the street. You lean against a lamppost, pressing your fingers to your face.

“…I ate pavement,” you announce.

“You did,” Sam confirms.

Bucky hovers. “You okay?”

You peek at him through your fingers.

He looks… worried.

You consider that.

Then, very seriously: “Be honest. Was it graceful?”

Sam chokes on a laugh.

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate. “…No.”

You sigh. “Devastating.”

A beat passes. The noise of the street settles around you again, but something else lingers—something quieter.

You look at him properly now.

“…You ran into traffic for me,” you say.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “You were about to get hit.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to.”

“Oh, he absolutely had to.”