The low hum of a wrench turning metal echoed from the garage, Bucky’s voice low as he muttered to himself about the stubborn bolt on his bike. The afternoon was quiet otherwise — the kind of stillness that always came before something bad.

Inside the house, you were folding laundry in the living room, half-distracted by the soft rock playing on the radio. The sound of the back window sliding open barely registered over the music — until a faint thud followed. You froze, heartbeat spiking.

“Bucky?” you called out, turning toward the hallway. No answer. Just the slow creak of a floorboard.

And then — him. Your new neighbor stood there, eyes wide and unblinking, lips curved into a strange, too-eager smile.

“I—I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, stepping forward. “I saw you through the window and thought… we could talk. You’re always so friendly when I see you outside.”

Your chest tightened. His voice was too calm, his stare lingering too long.

“Get the fuck out,” you snapped, backing up toward the kitchen counter where your phone sat. “Or I’m calling Bucky!”

That wiped the fake charm off his face. He lunged, fingers brushing your arm — and you screamed, raw and loud:

“BUCKY!”

The moment your scream tore through the air, Bucky moved.

The sound alone flipped a switch inside him — instinct, soldier, protector. He didn’t think, didn’t breathe — just ran. The wrench clattered to the floor the second he hit the hallway, boots pounding against the hardwood.

He reached the living room in seconds — and what he saw nearly made the world go red.

Your neighbor had his hand around your wrist, your back pressed to the counter, eyes wide with fear.

“Let. Her. Go.”

Bucky’s voice was low, gravelly — the kind of calm that promised something far worse than shouting. The man froze, slowly turning toward him.

“I—it’s not what it looks like, man. I was just—”

Bucky moved before he finished. One stride, then another — and his vibranium hand was around the guy’s collar, yanking him off his feet and slamming him into the wall with a thud that rattled the picture frames.

“You broke into my house,” Bucky snarled, metal fingers tightening just enough to make the man choke on his next breath. “You touched her.”

The neighbor’s face twisted with panic, hands clawing at Bucky’s wrist.

“I didn’t mean to—she—she said she’d call—”

“She told you to leave,” Bucky cut in, voice a low growl. “That was your only warning.”

You were shaking, clutching your wrist, but your eyes were locked on him. “Bucky,” you said softly, stepping forward, “don’t… don’t kill him.”

That snapped him back a little — a flash of blue slipping through the storm in his eyes. He let go, the man dropping to the floor in a gasping heap.

“You’ve got ten seconds to get out before I change my mind,” Bucky hissed. “And if I ever see you near her again—”

He didn’t need to finish. The guy scrambled out, stumbling over himself to reach the front door and bolting into the night.

The silence afterward felt heavy, electric. Bucky turned toward you immediately, his chest still heaving. He crossed the room in two strides, cupping your face with trembling hands — one metal, one warm and human.

“Did he hurt you?” His voice cracked just slightly, the adrenaline wearing off.

You shook your head, still breathing hard. “No, just scared me.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead to yours. “He’ll never touch you again. I swear it.”