The knock at Bucky’s door is soft, almost apologetic. He doesn’t bother asking who it is.

He already knows.

With a tired sigh, he pushes himself off the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face before opening the door.

It’s you.

Mascara smudged beneath exhausted eyes, lips pressed tight like you’re holding something back. Same look. Same reason.

“Let me guess,” Bucky says, folding his arms as he leans against the frame. “Another fight.”

You don’t answer. You just slip past him and drop onto his couch like it’s yours, because, in a way, it is.

“It’s stupid,” you mutter, dragging a hand through your hair. “I don’t even know why we keep doing this.”

Bucky watches you in silence, jaw clenched. Then, so quietly it almost disappears, he asks, “Then why do you?”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Because I love him, Buck.”

Of course you do.

Bucky forces a smile, the kind he’s perfected over the years, the kind that hides how his chest aches, how it hurts watching you break yourself for Steve over and over again.

“You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?” you ask, finally looking at him.

He shrugs. “I think you deserve someone who doesn’t keep hurting you.”

You sigh. “I know. But… it’s Steve.”

Yeah. It’s always Steve.

You reach for his hand without thinking, fingers threading through his like they’ve done a hundred times before. Habit. Comfort. Home. His grip tightens for half a second, just long enough to betray him before he gently pulls away.

“You’re my best friend, Bucky,” you say softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Bucky swallows, stepping back, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah, doll,” he murmurs, a bitter smile curling at his lips. “I’ll always be here.”