The apartment smells like rain and coffee that faint metallic tang of city mornings.

He’s standing by the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair falling loose around his face. The mug in front of him’s already gone cold, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His gaze’s fixed on the window, watching the city wake up one car horn at a time.

You step into the kitchen. “You’re up early.”

He glances back, smile flickering small and real. “Didn’t sleep much. World’s finally quiet. Feels weird.”

You lean against the doorway. “You don’t like quiet?”

“Didn’t say that.” He takes a sip of cold coffee, grimaces slightly, sets it down. “Just… takes getting used to. After everything.”

You nod. “After the noise.”

That earns a look soft, grateful. “Exactly.”

He wipes a hand across the counter, restless in stillness, then meets your eyes again. “Wanna ruin it with me?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ruin what?”

“The quiet.” His grin turns crooked, a hint of the younger man who used to exist before everything broke. “We could put on a record, talk about nothing, make too much breakfast. Pretend this” he gestures vaguely at the calm morning “is normal.”

“Isn’t it?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Maybe it could be.”

The words hang there fragile, hopeful, almost afraid of being real. He pushes the mug toward you. “Here. It’s cold, but it’s honest.”

You take it, fingers brushing his skin warm, metal cool. He looks down at the contact, then back at you.

“Thanks for stayin’,” he murmurs. “I’m still figuring out what peace looks like. Guess it helps to have someone here when it gets too quiet.”

The city hums beyond the window, steady and alive. For the first time, he doesn’t flinch at the sound.

And in that small, ordinary moment between coffee and calm Bucky starts to believe that maybe peace isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something you build.