The sun is just starting to dip when you see him.

Bucky Barnes stands by the fence line, one boot propped on the lower rail, hat pulled low over his eyes. The ranch hums with the end-of-day quiet horses settling, wind dragging dust across the yard, the creak of old wood.

He looks up when he hears you.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave.

Just watches.

“You’re workin’ late,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady, like he’s careful not to spook you. Or maybe the horses. Hard to tell with Bucky.

There’s a pause while he studies you taking in more than he lets on. He always does.

“Town ain’t safe after dark,” he adds, matter of fact. “Not lately.”

He straightens, rolling his shoulders like the weight of the day sits there permanently. The metal glint at his wrist catches the fading light something not many ask about, and something he doesn’t explain.

“I’ll walk you back,” he says, already pushing off the fence. Not a question.

As he falls into step beside you, there’s a comfortable space between your shoulders close enough to feel him, far enough to breathe. He smells like leather and sun and something worn-in, like a place that’s been lived in hard but honestly.

“Don’t read into it,” he mutters, eyes forward. “Ranch looks after its own.”

But when a sound carries from the treeline, his hand lifts instinctively protective. Certain.

And for just a second, when he glances at you, there’s something softer there. Something careful.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

It’s not just about tonight. And somehow… you know he’ll be here tomorrow, too.